


A Song about Pirates

by frances_the_red



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Action & Romance, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gen, Jaskier | Dandelion-centric, M/M, Mentions of Prostitution, Minor Canonical Character(s), Minor Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Minor Original Character(s), Multi, Non-Human Jaskier | Dandelion, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pirates, Pirates!AU, Polyamory, Semi-Public Sex, Short Story: Trochę poświęcenia | A Little Sacrifice, no beta we die like renfri, swashbuckling!AU
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-30
Updated: 2021-03-14
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:40:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 39,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28980513
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frances_the_red/pseuds/frances_the_red
Summary: "They say there is a ship sailing under the flag of a white wolf on black colors, it's crew a fearsome group of outlaws, anderlings and - if the stories are to be believed - Witchers. It's said that where the Roach has been, sea monsters dare to tread no more.""All this is true", remarked a bard. "But you make them sound like a bunch of gruesome pirates. They are not. Well, they are. But they are also human - not exactly human per se but they are nice people. Some have a temper, sure - Anyway, my point is: they are idiots. All of them. Buy me another drink, settle down and I will tell you a very true tale of death, destiny, heroics and heartbreak.""Will there be mermaids?" asked a little girl."Of course. And a prince, swordfights, monsters, escapes, true love and magic! And kissing.""Ewww!", remarked her younger brother.
Relationships: Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Eskel/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion/Other(s)
Comments: 68
Kudos: 81





	1. How far I'll go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> \- in which our protagonist gets introduced, a girl doesn’t get married and a bard gets robbed -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey there, dear people! Come and sit by the fire. If you haven't read [another of my fics](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23717029?view_full_work=true) yet, let me tell you how this works: I like to give my readers a soundtrack. Depending on which version of a song you choose, there can be a tonal shift in your reading experience. Or you don't listen to them at all. You decide. It's The Witcher, guys, it's always about decisions.
> 
>   
> 
> 
> [How far I'll go](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LUaHQeutCv0&ab_channel=ChaseHolfelder) Chase Holfelder
> 
> [How far I'll go](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=24tgzTpDZf0&ab_channel=Ga%C3%ABtanVerschaeve) Gaëtan Verschaeve
> 
> [How far I'll go (Instrumental)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UGywGcdJ17w&ab_channel=DJ066rapunzel) Moana - Original Score
> 
> [The banks of the Sansretour](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hvMfdI6ZxPw&ab_channel=EpicMusicMix) The Witcher 3: Wild Hunt-Blood and Wine

> _I've been staring at the edge of the water_  
>  _'Long as I can remember_  
>  _Never really knowing why_  
>  _I wish I could be the perfect brother_  
>  _But I come back to the water_  
>  _No matter how hard I try_

Somewhere between An Skellig and the underwater city of Ys lies an island. It is so small and so far off the coast of Kerack, that most people can’t even remember it is still there - a rock formation bathed by the Great Ocean, in the eye of a weak maelstrom, the winds whistling around it like agitated organists playing constant knifing accords. Only a handful of boatmen knew how to reach it.

Here is where our tale begins. 

The island seemed small and insignificant from the outside, inhabited. But if you knew where to look, you could see a small castle, incorporated right there in the stone of a high cliff. As if the gods themselves had chiseled it into the landscape. And right below it lay beauty. Untouched vegetation, only disturbed by a small town of maybe three hundred people. The inhabitants lived from what the island gifted them. There was plenty of fish, high pine trees, boar and venison.  
Life was easy there. Uneventful.

“Boring,” mumbled Julian, the seventh and youngest son of the island's ruler. As of today, he was seven years old, and he was sick of his tutor talking to him as if he was still a child. He knew this stuff! And still, Madame Kristyna insisted on these stupid lessons about the stars and the tides, about geography and geometry, history, rhetoric and dialectics. And those stupid languages, half of them not even used anymore.

He gazed out the window, listening to the waves crashing against the cliff, while being mesmerized by the wide blue masses of water. Even if it was cut off by the horizon, he knew from the maps that it didn’t just end there. The ocean was huge. How much water was there, he wondered. How deep did it go? Could turtles still live down there, in the coldest parts?  
His brother Maius had a pet turtle named Oog, who was used to swimming in cold water. Maius insisted that Oog was a tortoise who could just swim very good because Oog was smart, but Julian knew the difference between tortoises and turtles, thank you very much. Maius was just dumb. 

“Julian, are you even listening?”

He tore his gaze and thoughts away from the ocean and turtles and looked at the Madame, his big blue eyes wide and apologetic. He sweetly smiled up at her, through his long dark lashes, like his brother Febrian had shown him. Febrian was sixteen and said he should learn how to ‘charm the ladies’ early on. He had three girlfriends from the town down below by now so he probably knew his stuff. His oldest brother Ianus always said that Febri didn’t know crap. 

Madame Kristyna seemed unimpressed with his theatrics, for sure. Damn.

“…no,” he confessed. “Why do I even have to learn Nilfgaardian? On the Continent almost everyone speaks Common anyway.” 

“Visse deien alles en iedereen, Julian. Het aen creasa.”, scolded the Madame. (You serve everything and everyone, Julian. It’s your duty.)

Julian looked down at that, partly because of shame, but mostly in petulance. Being the crown prince sucked. 

Kristyna sighed heavily.

“Visse gead'tocht gaedeen, gvaedyn. Now go, be someone's else trouble. I’ll see you tomorrow. And Julian?” (You did well today, tenacious one.)  
The little prince, who had been too happy to bolt through the door, turned around again.   
“Happy birthday.”  
His smile rivaled the sun.

He quickly made it through the castle and in the direction of the big hall. Some birthday guests had arrived yesterday, most of them from the Continent. There were some odd druids, a Sorcerer from Ban Ard and a Priestess of Melitele. He was however curious to see how those fabled elves looked like, that he only knew through his books.

When he stood in front of the back entrance, he quickly caught his breath and tried to make himself look presentable. There had never been a big ruckus about standing ceremony, so when he quietly slipped into the hall, he wasn’t surprised that most of the guests had mingled, sitting at or standing around the seven big dining tables, sipping wine or ale and talking animatedly.   
His father was speaking with a bear of a man - probably from Skellege - who had a very loud laugh, while some of his older brothers had found themselves in a discussion with … elves. 

Filavandrel aén Fidháil was a _very_ pretty elven king, Julian thought.

Curiosity winning over nervousness, he dauntlessly stepped forward and tried to bow and greet him like he was taught to do in front of Aen Sidhe. Filavandrel seemed amused by that but acknowledged his effort with a respectful nod. 

“Ceádmil, cáermewedd. It is a great joy and honor that we meet on your day of baptism. That reminds me- come, I’ve brought a present. Let’s do this now before the other guests descent on you.” (Greetings, Child of destiny.)

With one fine hand on Julians' shoulder, Filavandrel led the young boy to one side of the hall, where a finely engraved wooden box had been placed between other obscure offerings. After an encouraging nod, the princeling hesitantly opened the crate.  
Safely encased in a soft shimmering fabric sat a lute.

“She is beautiful,” Julian whispered reverently, retracing the ornaments on the body with a finger.

“I am glad you like her. It’s tradition of my folk to present the heir of Pankratz with their instruments. When I asked your father about your … musical education, he informed me that he wasn’t sure if you would prefer a lute or a lyra.”

“Yeah, I can play a lot of instruments… Some of them very badly,” admitted Julian. “When I had my first shawm lessons, some of my brothers fled the castle. One of them stole it at night and stuffed it with raw sheep wool. Never got it all out.”

The elf's laugh was a bright melodic thing. It reminded Julian of daffodils, the color of the sky and ladybugs. 

“I fear for my flute now. Which brother was that? I’d rather avoid this marauder. I met Ianus and Febrian, who seem like reasonable young men to me. And I heard about Mensis and Apri-,” Filavandel stopped in his recital and looked down at Julian, his eyebrows raised. “Your father was not very creative when it came down to naming his children, was he?”

Julian shrugged, defeated. 

“I hate my name”, the boy confessed quietly. “I’d rather be named after something pretty.” 

“Give yourself a new name, then. You can pick one of your own choice when you are crowned, I take it.”

“Yeah.” Julian smiled at the thought until some other came to him. “How is that? To be king, I mean.”

The king of the elves seemed to think about his answer for a bit. His eyes lost some of their brightness. He seemed sad all of a sudden.

“Exhausting.”

Julians mood fell. With every passing year he hated being crown prince a little bit more. 

>   
>  _I know everybody on this island_  
>  _Seems so happy on this island_  
>  _Everything is by design_  
>  _I know everybody on this island_  
>  _Has a role on this island_  
>  _So maybe I can roll with mine_

Julian was fourteen when his brother Martius caught him snogging with the shepherd. 

“I am so going to tattle on you to father, Julian.”

The green-eyed boy's face, which had been a lovely shade of pink not a minute ago, turned white when he thought about the possible punishment and quickly made himself scarce.

“No, Mervyn, wait, he was only joking!” But it was too late. Another one gone, fleeting like the winds. 

Julian let himself fall backward into the hay dramatically, his hand covering his forehead like a swooning maiden. 

“I am going to die alone,” he whined with exaggerated pity. 

Martius snorted, but sat himself down beside him, petting his leg in mock sympathy. 

“You’ll live. That shepherd is betrothed with one of those kids of the miller anyway, you know.”

“Mh.” Julian had known. But the green eyes and dimples had been just too appealing to ignore.

“What about the cobbler's daughter? She’s a cute girl.”

Julian thought about that for a moment. 

“She is. She does that thing with her nose. But all she ever talks about is dresses or shoes or.. Other shallow stuff. She might be pretty, but she is also very boring.”

Martius sighed deeply. “Why is it that you are always bored, Julek?”

Julian had no idea how to answer that. So he stayed silent. 

“You know what? We should do something fun. Let’s go fishing or something.”

“Father won’t allow it. He is too afraid I could drown after what happened in the lake last summer.”

Since their mother had died in childbed at Julians birth, himself being a sickly babe for the better part of a year, their father had grown full of fear for him. Sometimes he wondered if they resented him for that. For being alive while the woman they loved died for him. A woman he himself may have never known, but his older brothers and father still hold close to their hearts to this day. 

“Balderdash. That was a stupid accident. You are an excellent swimmer and Father knows.”

A little boating trip sounded lovely, actually. He lacked the patience to fish in earnest, but Julian yearned for some wind around his nose and the smell of the sea after sitting in his study for most of the week.

“You know what? Let’s do this. You think Aprilis would like to come along?”

“Aprilis is with the farmers. Puts all that muscle to good use for once to help repair that fence. Pretty sure he just wants to impress his fiancé with his pecs, though. And Maius disappeared into the woods this morning with his buddies. Still swears black and blue that he’d seen a leshen.”

Julian knew every tree in that wood. Every cave and every pebble. The most dangerous thing in there were the boars.

“Yeah right. Where is that supposed to come from all of a sudden? Swam all the way from Skellige?”

“That's what I said. His naivety and credulity will get him in trouble someday. For being one year older than you, he sure seems like the youngest of us sometimes.”

For a short moment, Julian imagined what it would be like to be the sixth son, instead of the seventh.

———

A few weeks later Martius was firmly hugged when he embarked to spend his twentieth birthday in Novigrad.  
Every one of his brothers had seen the Continent at least once by now. Everyone but him.   
Julian watched the ship sail away through his window, a sad longing in his eyes.

Destiny seemed to taunt him with what he couldn’t have but had always yearned for. 

> _I can lead with pride_  
>  _I can make us strong_  
>  _I'll be satisfied if I play along_  
>  _But the voice inside sings a different song_  
>  _What is wrong with me?_

Julian was seventeen.

“Why, Father? Why are you doing this to me?”

“I’ve noticed that you haven’t been … happy lately.”

“I am not happy because I am a prisoner on this island! Marrying me off to a pretty face will not change that. If you would just let me wander the Continent for a bit, like the others, I will return to you with a smile and a thousand stories to tell. I don’t need a wife, I just need a change of scenery.”

“Julek, you know you can’t just-” King Alfred paused, inhaling deeply and massaging the bridge of his nose.

For a moment there he actually looked like a man in his fifties. Which couldn’t be, Julian thought. His father always looked like thirty-something. Always had been. Suddenly realizing that the King was an old man sparked an unfeasible fear in his breast.

“Look, this may sound unfair to you, but I have your best interest at heart here. I promise you, if you get to know her, you will be all over the idea. I’ve been informed that she is bright and witty, headstrong and kind. You will love her in no time.”

“I can’t know that! YOU can’t know that! Just because Mother and you hit it off right away doesn’t mean that every arranged marriage will result in thirty years of marital bliss.”

Mentioning his late wife had been a tactical error. When the king's face was turning to stone, he knew that he had lost the battle. 

“She will be here around Lammas. Go. I have a wedding to arrange.”

Standing at the turrets of the highest tower, Jaskier screamed his emotions into the bay.

The sea answered. 

> _See the line where the sky meets the sea?_  
>  _It calls me_  
>  _And no one knows_  
>  _How far it goes_  
>  _If the wind in my sail on the sea stays behind me_  
>  _One day I'll know_  
>  _how far I'll go_

A week later, Maius requested to visit the Continent to see Oxenfurt. He was allowed and the passage arranged. 

The boatsman didn’t ask questions when a young man with a lute boarded his vessel. These boys from the castle with their blue eyes and easy smiles looked all the same to him.

——————

It was many years later when a merchant ship traveling from Toussaint to Novigrad was attacked by the most feared band of pirates that had ever traveled the Great Sea. Except for some egos, nobody was hurt. The trading vessel however was ransacked from top to bottom, the crew left with nothing but enough rations to make it to port.

The swashbucklers' quartermaster - a bear of a man with a face that had left weaker enemies with nightmares - urged the freebooters on.

“Back on course in ten, people! Wrap it up!”

Finally the last of their men crossed the plank, something heavy thrown over his shoulder. Eskel needed a moment to realize that the loot wasn’t another carpet.

“Coën, what the fuck?”

The pirate just shrugged, startling his haulage in the process, who let out a surprised little gasp. “The captain said to take anything valuable.”

“That usually means freight, not people.”

“I am very precious cargo and insist on being stolen. I can’t stand these pompous merchants for one more day”, remarked the guy who was still hanging over Coëns shoulder like a sack of flour, gesturing wildly and threatening with a forefinger.   
“Also: one of your thieving scalawags took my lute. Where my lute goes, I follow. Whoever took it will receive my lethal stare of disparagement and a kick in the nuts. Now chop chop, honey. While I really enjoy your incredibly muscly shoulders, this isn’t the most comfortable of positions.” He patted Coëns arse as if to make his steed go faster. “Oh hoho - pirate ‘booty’ indeed. Love this ship already.”

Eskel and Coën exchanged a look. While Eskels glance obviously conveyed ‘what the heck?’, Coëns answering expression was more of the ‘No idea but what can you do?’ variety. 

Eskel wiped a hand over his face. “Put him in the hold, I’ve got no nerve for this right now.”

As Coën passed him, the ‘precious cargo’ had the cheek to wink and wave. Eskel stuttered to a halt, the wide-open smile and gorgeous blue eyes disarming him for a moment. He followed the man clad in blue and purple finery with his gaze, still enthralled by the sunshine smile. Alas, suddenly the angelic face crunched up in scrutiny, before sputtering and pointing at something over Eskels head.

“THIEF! That’s my lute you kleptomaniac excuse of a buccaneer! Give her back this instant you son of a Velen whore! A d'yaebl aép arse, piemellikker!-” (A devil up your arse, cocksucker!)  
While the bard was spouting more colorful maledictions in a myriad of languages, which Eskel didn’t really understand but certainly got the gist of, he spotted Iorveth in the rigging, a lute case on his back.  
“Just give him the damn thing.”  
“Bloede pest” remarked the elf grumpily, but handed the instrument over, anyway.

Eskel was grateful when the spectacle ended and Coën disappeared down the hatch, his prisoner in tow who was caressing his lute like a lover in need of consolation. 

He heard the master gunner Zoltan laugh his loud grumbly bark.

“I like the punk. Bloody time we had some entertainment ‘round here. We keep him, aye?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this fic I played about 100h Assassins Creed Black Flag and 60h Witcher3:Wild Hunt in Skellige only, binge-watched Black Sails, read a bunch of books, watched all pirate movies there are at least three times and filled up most of one notebook. The amount of research I put into this fic is ridiculous. I've been working on this for about a year. Not even my master thesis received this much effort. So if you could leave the poor sleep-deprived author some feedback? Much appreciated. 
> 
> I am very excited. Let's get this thing on the road, guys.


	2. Bard on deck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> \- in which the characters get introduced, rules are stated, hats are seized and shenanigans ensue -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>   
> 
> 
> [Sugar in the hold below](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kCAUaRFxC_g&ab_channel=TheLongestJohns) The longest Johns
> 
> [Wellerman](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WHbU6s0jANc&ab_channel=YTmusic) Nathan Evans
> 
> [Anne Bonny](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G50K3pV8-_w&ab_channel=Karliene) Karliene
> 
> [Hoist up the thing](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SaEXyQg7pCc&ab_channel=TheLongestJohns) The longest Johns
> 
>   
> 

“We will certainly NOT keep him.”  
“But he is a bard, Geralt! I know of captains who left crew members behind just to keep the bard aboard”, bargained Lambert.  
“We don’t _need_ a fucking bard.”  
“But we need a cabin boy”, remarked Eskel. “Vesemir is getting fed up with no help in the galley. The deck could do with some scrubbing. And Lambert and I are sick of being your errand boy all the time.”  
Geralt of Rivia, Witcher and Pirate Captain, groaned as if in great pain and pressed his face into his palms.  
“I am also very sure that he’s some kind of noble. The way he speaks and the finery? There’s probably money there. We could ransom him”, Lambert tried to sweeten the pot.   
Eskel bristled at that. “We will not. We are no kidnappers.”  
“I didn’t say we are. But if the guy's family happens to be wealthy we could ask about a finders fee.”  
Eskel smacked Lambert over the back of his head.  
Geralt, who was used to their brotherly antics, ignored their bickering.  
“Just release him for now,” remarked Geralt with a sigh. “He will probably jump ship the next chance he gets anyway.”

———————————

Eskel made his exit from the captains cabin and made it down the hatch to release their new passenger. 

They had kept the bard in the hold, one hand bound to a metal bar firmly fixed on the floor. Jaskier could have gotten out of his bonds if he really wanted to. But he found the musician lounging against a crate, plucking away on his lute and soulfully singing to pass the time. 

> Well this vessel, she is a pirate ship  
>  Stern to stern she's mighty fine  
>  Can beat any boat on the Redanian line   
>  Stowing sugar in the hold below. 

Hey ho, below below   
Stowing sugar in the hold below-”  
  
The troubadour stopped when he noticed his audience. Eskel leaned on one of the wooden beams, having listened to the man in amusement.

“So… am I supposed to call you ‘sugar’? Or do you actually have a name?”

The minstrel smirked at that. “Jaskier will do.”

“Congratulations, Jaskier. You’ve been promoted from prisoner to cabin boy. Do anything stupid and you’re back down here with the rats. I’m Eskel, the quartermaster of this fine vessel, and will show you the ropes and explain the rules.” Jaskier extended his arm so Eskel could open the complicated knot around his wrist.

“If I may ask, Eskel… am I right to assume that I am actually on the Roach? The Witcher ship?”

Eskel was surprised by that. Jaskier seemed awfully relaxed for a guy who knew that he was on a ship of ill fame. Eskel subtly sniffed the air. Instead of the bitter stench of fear, there was the aroma of excitement in the air. Faint mint and the smell of a storm soon coming.

Was he _actually happy_ to be on the Roach? Hadn’t he realized yet that from now on the musician would be in close quarters with Witchers and outcasts for months, nowhere to flee or hide? 

The thought made Eskel suspicious. 

“Yes, we sail under the White Wolf. Aren’t you scared?”

“Scared? I am euphoric! You must have so many stories to tell! I want to know them all. The thing with the giant kraken, is it true? How did that happen? And I heard the rumor about your crew fighting against the monster of Ys? What was that? Was it some kind of shark? A whale? No one could tell me. And the rumor about the treasure island you found? Was it-”

“Stop.”

Jaskier pouted but did indeed shut up. He was just released from his bonds and had no intention of getting tied up again so soon. 

Eskel eyed the bard in scrutiny.

“Are you telling me that you deliberately got yourself kidnapped so you could listen to a bunch of stories?”

“Well, it was more of a happy coincidence, really. But how could I miss out on an opportunity like that? This is marvelous. I am going to write so many songs!”

Eskel took note of the sparkling blue eyes alight with excitement and glee, the dreamy smile, the flushed cheeks. Once again he was put out by the pure joy that seemed to radiate from the man.

The Witcher could smell neither lie nor deception, so he was willing to believe the bard for now. The guy had nowhere to flee anyway and an attack from one lithe man whose only weapons were a lute and his fists was laughable at best.

“You are a strange one.”

“So I’ve been told,” Jaskier conceded.

Eskel slightly shook his head in bafflement. He was interested to see how this would play out. 

“Come on, sugar. I’ll show you around.”

————

Jaskier was a giddy ball of nerves when he was shown across the ship. He wanted to take it all in at once. The way the dark maroon of Eskels robe contrasted against the sky. The many patches in the sails, carefully mended. The feeling of Roach's wood under his fingers. The many peculiar men making themselves busy on deck. A few of them eyed him in distrust, while the most reflected his own curiosity right back at him. He greeted them all with a friendly smile and tried to remember all their names and positions in the process.  
Jaskier looked around the deck in curiosity, when they had greeted about two handfuls of people. 

“So where is the rest of your crew, then? Shouldn’t there be like… fifty men around here or something?”

Eskel gave a cheeky half-smile, his honey-colored eyes sparkling knowingly. 

“We _do_ have seven Witchers aboard.”

“Oh. Ah, yes. I see. Guess the strength and reflex thing comes quite in handy”, remarked Jaskier sheepishly. He was reminded of the way Coen had thrown him over his shoulders like he was just another sack of potatoes.

“But either way,” Eskel continued, “our good Roach can be sailed with just two normal men.” One of Eskels hands fondled the wood of the fore boom, a proud small smile on his lips.

Eskel looked beautiful like that, Jaskier thought. That smile suited him handsomely.

Halfway through the tour, they were approached by yet another Witcher. He too wore a kontusz zupan of sort, a myriad of blades fastened to a sash around his middle. The robes had no sleeves, showing off an impressive pair of arms in a washed out grayish cotton shirt. The face with the nose that looked like it had been broken and reset at least three times was framed by lovely red curls. If the cat like eyes of ocre-yellow hadn’t given his mutation away, Jaskier would have thought him to be a man like any other. Well, a very dangerous man. The knives looked very pointy. 

“Jaskier, this is Lambert, the boatswain. He’s in command of maintenance and assigns all the tasks to the deck crew, including you. So if he tells you to do something, you do it.”

“Okay, so that makes you like… third in command, right?”, inquired Jaskier. “You take bribes? Because I really don’t look forward to kitchen duty.”

“Fat chance getting out of that one, punk. But give me your rum ration and I might think about assigning you more than just swabbing.”

Jaskier pouted, making big eyes at Lambert, trying on his best impression of a cute puppy. Lambert didn’t fall for it and only snorted in light amusement.

“Ah well, worth a try. Any tips for the new cabin boy?” 

The redhead seemed to think about that for a moment in earnest.

“By the look of you, you'll probably need a couple of dozens. But have three tips for now. Number one is to always use one hand for you, the other for the ship. Number two: The most important thing on a ship is trust. Trust between the crew. Trust in the Captain to make the right decisions. If we can’t trust in each other, the ship is doomed.”

Jaskier nodded at that in earnest, recognizing it for what it was; a warning.

“And number three?”

“No shanties.”

Jaskier blinked and hoped he had misheard.

“Excuse me?”

“You are a bard by trade, right? I’m not sure how much of your jingle-jangling will be tolerated by the Captain. When we started with the whole swashbuckling stuff, one of the first rules established was that there will be no shanties allowed on the Roach.”

Jaskier was shook. “Are you serious? That’s half the fun of being at sea! NO SHANTIES!?”

Eskel tugged Jaskier along to get to the galley, while the minstrel still sputtered in speechless rage.

“Is this real? Eskel dearest, tell me he was lying. You can’t just forbid the crew to sing shanties! What is this madness? He’s just having me on, right? RIGHT?”

“’Fraid not. Now come on, Vesemir has work for you.”

“NO SHANTIES, ESKEL!?”

Lambert turned around chuckling, joining Geralt and Regis - their navigator, surgeon and barber - at the wheel. 

“What do you make of him?”

Geralt spotted one of his usual scowls, undecided on how to deal with a fucking bard on his ship. If the last hour was any indication, he would have to deal with a sassy windbag who knew neither reason nor fear. 

Regis took a second to carefully formulate one of his impartial, cryptic answers.

“I believe that things will change around here.”

Geralt grunted in misery.

—————————

When Eskel and Jaskier arrived in the galley, the bard still lamenting, they were greeted by the sight of an older man with a graying beard listening to the chatter of a young kid, who looked very grumpy for a girl her age. The cook was occasionally humming or nodding in the right places while peeling vegetables.

When the girl noticed their presence, she instantly was on the minstrel, curiosity in her green eyes, a frown in her brows.

“Ciri, this is Jaskier, the new cabin boy.”

Ciris eyes lit up in joy, then she uncaringly threw her peeling knife on the next best surface, blurted “Hi, Jaskier! Bye, Jaskier!” and hightailed out of the ship's kitchen area. Vesemir took it with grace. He seemed to be used to his helpers fleeing. Jaskier looked questioningly, first at Vesemir, who ignored him, then at Eskel.

“Geralts daughter?”

Eskel looked surprised by the guess. There was that mistrusting little frown again.

“What makes you say that?”

“The hair. The most stunning shade of silvery blonds I’ve ever seen. The frown was also a dead give away. Very intense brooding.”

That actually braught a miniscule smile onto the gray-haired cooks face. 

“Geralts ward. She spends some time on the ship every warm season, then she is back to either her grandfather in Cintra or family in Skellege.”

“Sounds like a childhood full of adventure.”

“You’ve no idea,” mumbled Vesemir and finally looked up at his newest victim. He had a no-nonsense air of authority about him that Jaskier didn’t dare to cross. The cook picked up Ciris abandoned knife and hold it out to the bard, handle first. 

“Sit. Peel.”

So Jaskier sat and peeled.

———————-

After a few weeks on the ship, Jaskiers concept of freebootery was viciously destroyed. Being a pirate was not the romantic life he had imagined. He’d somehow known that there would be a lot of labor involved. He didn’t mind the hard work as much as he had feared apart from the moments his hands hurt too much to play some quiet melodies on his lute. There were a lot of things no one ever had mentioned in the books, though. Things that were basic before but seemed hard to come by at sea. 

Hygiene, for one. There was only so much you could do with a rag and a vat of cold soapy water that had been used by countless other men before you. The paste with gillyflower and mint to clean your teeth was strictly provisioned. His hair had started to curl and lighten from all the sun and sea salt water. He also really craved for a good shave. He had always been kind of… hairy, so to speak. So waiting a week until it was his turn again to get shaven by Regis was not pleasant. The regrowth was itchy by day three and even if he had eyed Lamberts finely sharpened knives a few times, he just wasn’t willing to shave himself on a ship that was constantly swaying. He enjoyed his neck unnicked, thank you very much. He was pleased to see that he was still raggishly handsome, even with a beard, but happy to get the facial hair removed when he got the chance. 

Previous to the Roach, Jaskier had only been on vessels, where the crew had strict rules and the passengers a chamber pot in their private cabins. Men climbing on the railing and getting their cocks out to take a wee was a totally different kind of new and awkward for him. It was however still preferable to using the latrine, which was nothing but a hole in the floor under the bowsprit. There your cheeks were, hanging out for all the fish and mermaids to see and the elements to play with. Pooping on a stormy day was the most unpleasant experience he had yet to make.

Another thing he sorely missed was privacy. Sleeping in a hammock under deck with at least ten other people in a cramped dingy crew area where men smelling of cold sweat and garlic loudly snored, randomly farted and occationaly wanked was …uncomfortable, to say the least. He envied folks like Eskel and Lambert, who had the privilege to sleep in the mates cabins, or Captain Rivia who had a cabin all by himself. Somewhat of a proper bed, too. And a place to withdraw when it all became too much. Alone-time was a thing that didn’t exist anymore. Jaskier had tried to find some quiet spots, like the hold or the very tip of the fore castle deck, but that was mostly short lived. The only place he had a few hours to himself was the sail stowage. Although cramped and uncomfortable, napping there was the best part of the week.

Speaking of sleep: Even if he had to pull his weight like any other member of the crew, there was however one concession made for him. He never had to work an early morning shift. The bard - as well as the rest of his musical creed - was a creature of the night by nature, singing and dancing well into the morning hours milking the last drunks off their coin. So waking him up at the ass crack of dawn had his repercussions. His work was mediocre and his movements sluggish - which could be a death warrant on a ship. The worst part however was his silver tongue biting out insults to anyone who dared speaking to him. Even barking Lambert was left gaping by the hurtful words and filthy vocabulary. When Jaskiers brain finally got to his senses by midmorning he had to make his rounds, apologizing profusely to whomever had felt victim to his ire. His guilty conscience stayed all day, making him demure - which in return made the crew feel bad. Three days into his first and only morning shift it was decided by common accord that only a happy bard was a useful bard. From then on no one dared to bother him until well into midmorning.

It might sound contradictory, but although he missed privacy he also dearly missed intimacy. Jaskier had noticed that he wasn’t the only one. Since he had never been particularly body shy, he had made it his mission to hand out his abundance of love and affection in small unobtrusive portions. A friendly pat here, a brotherly hug there, a nondescript caress or playful kisses on noses and temples. The minstrels keen eyes found the ones most in need of some cuddles easily enough. More often than not, it were the Witchers in charge. Vesemir accepted the occasional hands on his arms and thankful pads on the shoulders easily enough after a while. Lambert had been suspicious at first but hesitantly started to reciprocate, playfully ruffling his hair or brotherly slinging an arm around his shoulders. 

Eskel and Geralt were tough ones, though. He had to thread carefully with them. Every time he tried to touch Eskels arm, the Witcher got overly stiff. He allowed it, but even the smallest touch on the hand seemed to turn the man to stone. When complemented, Eskel turned his face and pressed his teeth together. Jaskier had no idea why that was, but he would shower the man with attentiveness and flirty teasing until he stopped with the shy demeanor, Melitele be his witness. The dark haired Witcher was too enticing to ignore for long, anyway. 

Captain Rivia was… a whole different problem. His demeanor and constant scowl was a barrier Jaskier still tried to break through. When running errands for the captain, constantly walking from forepeak to skipper, from staysail to mizzen, Jaskier always tried to be the most cheerful when bringing back whatever information Geralt had asked for. He usually sprinkled in the latest conversations he overheard or commented on how beautiful the surf contrasted on Roach's hull in this kind of weather. But all his usual charm seemed to run on flat ears and his chatter to distract the Captain from gloomy thoughts for naught. Geralts common response was a grunt, a heartfelt ‘fuck’ or an ominous ‘Mhh’ that could mean pretty much anything. Geralt was a puzzle Jaskier desperately wanted to figure out.   
  
———————

Jaskier was swabbing the deck, hands deep in a bucket to get his scrubber wet again. His mind was somewhere else, while he scrubbed at a particularly moldy looking floorboard with the salt water, that prevented it from growing moss and kept the plank swelling so the deck didn’t leak. It was a meditative work, once his body got used to it.

Jaskier found himself humming more often than not. New compositions in mind, he used these moments to put a do-re-mi to the poetry. His repertoire in stories had reached a staggering amount since he had joined the Roach.

Today he found himself humming a familiar tone, though. When he brain finally caught up with his ears, he couldn’t help but sing aloud. Swinging his head from side to side with the melody, he pushed his scrubber into the bucket with new found vigor, swabbing away on hands and knees, singing the merry tune. 

> There once was a ship that put to sea  
>  The name of the ship was the Billy of Tea  
>  The winds blew up, her bow dipped down  
>  O blow, my bully boys, blow  
>  Soon may the Wellerman come  
>  To bring us sugar and tea and rum  
>  One day, when the tonguin' is done  
>  We'll take our leave and-OUCH!

———

  
Geralt had been at the quarter deck, consulting with Regis about their route, when his concentration was swept away by the humming.

He looked up and - of course, it was the damn bard again. It was kind of nice. Soothing in a way. It was certainly nicer than Iorveths grating flute, Milvas sharp whistling, or Cahirs grating singsong he sometimes fell in when he did his carpentry. 

Melitele have mercy, he hoped Jaskier never found out that he could get a merry band of musicians together. He had noticed some of the crew occasionally tapping along to the bards' neverending melodies, one song seamlessly weaving into another, while he plucked on his lute. Ciri had been singing, her laughter light and happy. Even the ever stoic Regis had smiled and hummed along when the minstrel had played an old toussaintan ballad. 

Jaskier was dangerous. He had been on the ship for but a month and already seemed to have everyone wrapped around his little finger.  
And Geralt had absolutely no fucking idea what to do with this subtle change, that lightness, that suddenly breezed over the ship. Had he not cared for his crew? Should he have provided them with more entertainment? Should he be more approachable? More caring for the needs of his crew? Had they missed out on something essential under his lead? 

Every time Jaskier let himself into his cabin with confidence and aplomb - shirt half-open, hair windswept and ocean blue eyes sparkling - informing him of repairs needed, the newest info concerning food and water supply or other important reports, he always added some stuff that always was also a bit more personal. 

Stuff like “Milva has a sore throat today. I’ll see if I find a scarf for her in that merchant loot, if that’s okay with you?”  
Or “Munro and Caleb had a fisty fight about the best Gwent deck yet again. They are both wrong, because the best deck is obviously Northern, right? Anyway, I think Munro pulled a muscle and is too proud to mention it? I’ll have Regis have a look at him, damn his ego.”  
And even “What got Lamberts breeches in a twist? I swear, every time there’s unsweetened porridge at breakfast he acts like a Countess I know. Meliteles tits, what a rude bastard, but give him enough sugar and he’s kind of tame. Don’t tell Vesemir but I am sneaking sweet buns out of the galley.”

And every time the bard said things like that to him he was reminded of his failings. Insignifact little things, sure. But if these things added up, it could easily grow into an unhappy bunch. And with unhappy crew members came mutiny. And he really wasn’t willing to lose the Roach. The ship has gotten as dear to him as Kaer Morhen once had been.

Jaskier did him a service there. He should talk with Eskel about all this, he thought. He knew that the other Witcher had a better bond with the crew. His gentle words and understanding heart made him a good quatermaster. But maybe Geralt had relied a bit too much on him in the last couple of years. 

He was shaken from his musings when he heard the bard sing. A lovely voice. Enticing and strong.   
And then Geralt realized what exactly he heard. 

A fucking shanty. 

He really hated those.

He was on his feet in an instant, left Regis with the maps and was down the quarterdeck in a few strides. Grabbing one of the bristle brushes, he dropped it on the bards head.

“OUCH! What was that for?”  
“No shanties.”  
“What is it with you and shanties? This is a pirate ship, for gods sake.” The bard looked disgruntled while he rubbed his head.  
“They make too much noise, are annoying as hell and distract the crew.”   
Even more horrible was the fact that they were fucking earworms that wouldn’t leave his head for weeks. How was a man supposed to _think?_

“If I hear one more shanty from you, you will regret it.”

“Oh, will I?”

Jaskiers expression is something he recognizes: a confident tilt of the jaw, cocky defiance burning in his eyes, like he is untouchable, indestructible. There’s no fear there. 

He is instantly reminded of Yennefer and something deep in his gut was rising up in heat. He shifted his weight, trying to shake the feeling.

“I am the White Wolf, Butcher of Blaviken, Slayer of Iku-Turso, the most feared pirate of the sea. I am also your captain, and if you don’t want to walk the plank, you will do as I say.”

“Is this supposed to be a thread? Oh, please, I’m not afraid of you. Why should I? You are adorable.”

Oh my. Jaskier just told his captain who was purely made out of muscle and grumpiness, that he found him adorable. He readied himself to receive a punch or backhand, but none came.

Instead the White Wolf didn’t seem to be offended at all. His brain obviously needed a moment to parse the comment. He mouthed the word _adorable_ as if it was a particularly hard puzzle. His brows slowly raised and showed his incredulity. And then the absurdity of getting called something so sweet and soft caught up with him and the left side of his mouth ticked into the smallest of smiles. 

Jaskier wondered what it would take to make Geralt smile for real. What kind of song would make him belt out a real laugh. Jaskier was willing to write a thousand songs just to make it happen.

Geralt shook his head slightly, then turned to see to his duties again, but halted in his steps.

“We have a perfectly servicable mop, by the way. No need to get on your hands and knees.”

They heard Lambert groan from his spot at the wheel.

“Geralt, you rat. Me and Eskel were enjoying the few!”

Jaskier shot the both of them a look of utter betrayal. Lambert laughed his head of while Eskel had the decency to look a tiny bit sorry.

Lambert had been honest there, though. Eskel had really liked the sight of Jaskiers shapely behind and that tantalizing little bow that kept his breeches from sliding down narrow hips.

Ah well. It was nice, while it lasted. 

————

Between the odd jobs that were assigned in his role as a cabin boy and his capacity of unappreciated bard he became somewhat of a teacher to the little pirate princess. It was no hardship for him. He had always loved little kids, for it was easy to make them dance, even easier to make them laugh or gasp or look in wonder. They were also the best kind of critics, for they always were brutally honest and utterly shameless if a song was shit. 

She was especially interested in the stories and songs of Anne Bonny, which he had to tell and sing time and time again. She sometimes acted out the vicious sea fights, a real scabbard in hand - ominously Jaskier was the only one who found that frightening. 

Ciri absorbed all of his teachings and stories like a sponge, even if it was something so dull as topography.

“You know so much about these places. Have you been everywhere?”

Jaskier smiled at that. 

“I’ve been around, seen a lot of the Continent so far. But anything beyond, like Ofir or Zerrikania… No, I’ve… only ever read about it. Seen paintings. But the longer you stare at them, the more … meaningless they get. Just static. Irrelevant. Because you may be able to make them come alive with your imagination, but it will never be like the actual thing.” Jaskiers gaze had been drawn to the sea and the horizon, his mind elsewhere, his voice growing quieter with each word.

Ciri poked him, impatient. 

“I’m sorry, I went of a tangent there. No, I’ve not seen it all. But I plan to, anyway.”

“But you’ve read a bunch of books, right? You know stuff.” 

Jaskier nodded slowly. “I know a bit more than others, but I don’t know everything.”

“So you can tell me something. Lambert said that the tide is created by a giant toad at the bottom of the ocean who draws water into his belly. And after a while he pukes the water out again and that’s why we have the tide. Is that true?”

Jaskier tried to look very earnest, but a laugh was threatening to bubble up his throat anyway.   
“Well, if Lambert says so, then I’m sure it’s true.”

Ciri was disgruntled by that answer. “Damn. I just lost an oren.”

“See, and that’s a very useful lesson to learn, too. Never gamble. And certainly not with Witchers. Or dwarves for that matter. It’s a very bad habit to get into.”

“SHIP AT PORT!” came the loud scream from the crow's nest.

There was an agitated bustle on deck, everybody shuffling to the left side to see the vessel for themselves.  
Geralt suddenly stood on the stairs between quarter and main deck and pulled a long spying glass from a holster on his truly magnificent black overcoat.

“What kind of flag, Echel?”, he asked loudly, while he uncompressed his ocular.

“Temerian naval!”, replied the elf from his higher position. “Sixteen gunner!”

Jaskier leaned into Milva on his left. “How many guns do _we_ have?”

“Eight. And two swivel guns we never really use.”

“Oh shit.”

Milva laughed. “Don’t worry. Our Roach is a fast sea horse and Geralt a cunning tactician. As soon as we are close enough to board, the Bears will go berserk.”

Oh. Jaskier sometimes forgot that he traveled with a small army of Witchers. True enough, when he looked around, Ivo and Junod were already dressing themselves up for a fight. They slipped into their long armor made of leather, chain mail and some thick lining, strapping a small arsenal of weapons upon their bodies.

Geralt, Eskel, and Lambert incidentally did their own fighting preparations while shouting out commands left and right. Geralts deep voice was the loudest and most demanding, his crew complying and carrying out instructions like a well-oiled clock.

“Lambert, at the wheel! Hoist the Wolf! Sails all raised! Zoltan, fire at will! Go for the sails, not the hull. Make them believe they can take us. We don’t want them to catch downwind and run. Lambert, turning maneuver! Don’t let them get a broadside volley in.”

Everyone around him started pulling on ropes and tows, scambled up the rigging or transported stuff from the hold to the deck. Jaskier didn’t really know what to do with himself, so he walked up to Lambert at the wheel to get a better view of the whole scene. 

Some people were screaming one word or the other, and another crew member instantly knew what to do. Zoltan had the guns ready in no time, telling Milva, Munro and Caleb when exactly to shoot their load. As soon as one cannonball was shot, there was another projectile ready. And in the middle of it all was Ciri, clambering about like a little monkey, running from deck through the hatch into the hold area and back, handing out hooks or tow.   
It was madness. It was glorious.   
It was a dance. A beautiful waltz that Jaskier wanted to memorize every detail of.

“Wanna have a look?”, asked Lambert, who in a masterful maneuver had bypassed the volley of cannons shot their way, while somehow steering the Roach behind the temerian ship, only five sea miles separating Roaches bow from their stern. He held out his own spying glass for Jaskier to take.

Jaskier took it gratefully and looked through, examining their enemies who were running around in mild panic. The military men wore the typical blue uniforms of the timerian navy and readied themselves for a fight. A few of them manned their own swivel guns in hopes of getting some good shots in.

“Lambert, darling.”

“Yes, bard?”

“They have awfully nice hats. Bring me the one with the biggest feather?”

“Compensating for something?”

“Nah. Just a style choice. If you all belabour the point about me acting like a peacock all the time, maybe I should just… own it.”

Lambert smirked widely. 

“If you wanna reflect on your manners then I better look out for a womans bonnet, shall I?”

“Prick.”

“Nag.”

They were nearly at one height with the three-master now. From somewhere Geralts voice screamed a ferocious war cry and like an avenging angel the captain, Coen and the Bears swung themselves from the topmast over to the other ship. There was a clashing of steel and the timerians were too distracted by the fight to do anything against the grappling hooks Iorveth, Isengrim and Echel had thrown over their railings.

“You take the wheel now, bardling. Make sure we don’t drift to the side while I bash some heads in.”

And then Lambert was off, balancing over one of the big tows and joined the fray with a manic cackle.

Jaskier took the wheel, which he knew was kind of redundant, only a meaningless assignment to keep him away from the danger. But he reveled in the task anyway, his hands gliding from the handholds down and over the detailing in the middle of the wheel. The brown oak was touched by so many hands on the regular that it shined like freshly polished. Roach deserved a song of her own, Jaskier decided.

His thoughts were brought back from reality when there was a change in the fighting noise. The shouting was quieting down and the singing of steel meeting steel tapered off to an occasional clanging.

There were only a handful of bluecoats still standing, most of them lying on deck bleeding from wounds or knocked out.

Geralt had the other Captain engaged in a duel. The thin rapier was barely holding up against Geralts longer steel sword. The captain was sweating profusely, countering attacks clumsily. Geralt on the other hand looked like a knight of legend. His silvery hair swayed with his elegant movements, his motions graceful and deliberate. He had Eskel watching his back, fighting of any hostiles stupid enough to try and assassinate Geralt cowardly from behind. He didn’t really use his sword but from time to time signed something complicated with his left, which made the attackers fly through the air by an unseen force.

Together they looked like a deadly match, two sides of the same coin. One silver-haired in black, the other dark-haired in maroon, they made a striking combination.

Jaskiers knees went a bit week and his jaw was hanging open. His heart was singing by the lethal beauty of it.

The timerian Captain wore a look of devastation on his face when he finally realized that he was toyed with. He had no chance of winning. With a clang, he threw his sword a few feet away and raised his hands in defeat. Geralts smirk was devilish.   
The rest of the naval crew soon followed swiftly, throwing their weapons on the ground and sitting down with their hands behind their backs.

The other half of the attack was a simple matter of looting and keeping an eye on the enemy. Wooden planks were used as impromptu bridges to get the food and other utensils like ammunition from one ship to the other quickly. Jaskier could finally make himself useful and helped with arranging barrels and linen sacks to Vesemirs liking, perishables in the front, preserved goods like salted meat or pickled vegetables in the back. He distractedly noticed when the Roach was moving again, still occupied with stacking and noting down the amounts of everything in the dimly lit space.

After that it was only more work for the bard: while the Witchers sat down with some rum, clinking tankards for a job well done and boasting about their fights, Jaskier was in the galley with Vesemir, preparing an outrageously amount of dinner.

Vesemir was handling the fire. It was a nifty little cooking apparatus: a metal box full of sand, a small fire pan in the middle of it, a horizontal rod above, where a big cauldron hung on a hook. Keeping the fire going under it was a fickle emprise since the coals liked to move while the Roach swayed from side to side. But Vesemir was patient, handling the flames like an alchemist and sometimes coaxing the fire hotter with a finely tuned Igni. Jaskier threw ingrediens and herbs into the stew-lentil-dish when he was told to, all the while chatting away. He’d come to like the stoic older Witcher, who had a dark sense of humor and a witty tongue if he felt like talking. On occasion he shared a story from his deep well of experience. He was grateful to find a willing listener in Jaskier, who knew when to ask follow up questions or not.

Once the cooking was done, Jaskier carried the food from the ships kitchen to the forecastle where the seaman ate. He had to be careful, his footing sure as well as quick. Melitele forbid if he slipped and fell or meals for ten men would be sloshing over the floor. That would be a waste as well as a mess that he would have to clean up again. 

It was late in the night when he finally finished up with all of his duties. He gobbled down his own portion while washing up the last of the dishes, made sure the coals were cold one more time, then headed into the crew area to faint into rest when his feet were in the hammock.

——————

It was the middle of the morning when he joined the others on deck again, munching on an apple - one of their spoils from the day before. Still a bit sleepy he looked around deck to greet Lambert and Eskel, who would surely have an arm-long list of jobs for him.  
He was surprised when Lambert didn’t present him with his to-dos but a tricornered hat with a gigantic feather, devilishly grinning from ear to ear.

“Lambert, that’s why you are my favorite. Oh, look at this thing!” he marveled reverently. He enjoyed the soft feeling of the fine plumage under his fingertips while his fingers stroke over the feather carefully. Then the same hand combed through his hair, before donning the headdress. 

“How do I look?”

Eskel looked him up and down, an appreciative glint in his eye. 

“Like a man in charge.”

Jaskiers answer was a flirty little smile. “Do I?”

They stared at each others eyes for a moment. Speculating. Imagining.

Jaskier pulled himself out of this dangerous line of thinking and slipped into his performance persona.

“As I look like a guy in charge I might as well rise to the occasion. I guess this is a mutiny then! I declare myself Captain of this ship!” 

Some people laughed and yayed, others called bullshit and rolled their eyes upon the bards antics.

“Shouldn’t there be a vote about that?”

“Lambert, my darling sweet, this hat is now my crown and I have no interest in establishing a democracy this early in my reign.” He rightened the seat of his magnificent new hat, cheekily blowing the big pheasant feather out of his field of vision.

“Alright then, first order of business: rum for everyone!”

The men cheered wildly.

“Second order: as Captain I don’t have to peal any more potatoes. From now on that honor goes to…”- he looked around, looking for some friendly pray - “Percival.”

The gnome fondled one of his hammers, dangerous but playful. “Certainly not, Captain. I do repairs. Peeling potatoes is not my job.”

“Good point. Well, who’s job is it then?”

No one raised their hand. 

Jaskier pouted. “Backstabbers.”

Lambert laid his arm around the pseudo-captain in friendly camaraderie.

“Any other orders then, twink?”

“Not that I can think of, no. Just…” he flayed his hands around, encompassing the Roach and it’s crew. “Do your stuff. Hoist up the”- he pointed at the mizzen and mainsail “-thing. And batten down the” - gesturing to the hatch leading down to the hold- “whatsitsname.”

The crew laughed at his antics. Jaskier had no problem with being the target of their mirth as long as he could lift some spirits. He grabbed his trusty lute from his back, started strumming and picking, while continuing to shout totally senseless commands. 

> Hoist up the thing!   
>  Batten down the whatsit!   
>  What's that thing spinning? Somebody should stop it!   
>  Turn hard to port! 

“That's not port. Thats starboard, Jaskier.”  
“Of course. I knew that. I just wanted to test you, sailor. Trust me, I'm in total control of the situation.”  
“Are you, though?”

> I can’t sing the shanties, it has to be said   
>  And all of that grog just goes right to my head   
>  Whale meat is gross and I miss a girl’s laugh   
>  Five weeks at sea, even Lambert seems a catch! 

“You little-” Said boatswain tried to lung for Jaskier. The bard danced away, playing up his apprehension. 

> "There’s murmurs of discontent under the deck   
>  If I don’t act fast, it could be my neck!   
>  Hoist up the thing! Batten down the whatsit! 

What's that thing spinning? Somebo-”

“NO SHANTIES I SAID!”

Jaskier stopped with the music and turned around utterly unimpressed, a cheeky smile on his face. 

“As I am captain now, I don’t think that rule is still active.”

Geralt huffed, stole the hat and remarked in his gravely voice, that “The penalty for mutiny on my ship is penal servitude or death. What will it be, bard?”

The minstrel swallowed audibly. Not that he actually thought that Geralt would let him walk the plank or anything. It was more the fact that this voice grumbling about _serving_ the Witcher this near to the bards ear in that seductive way made him a tiny bit too warm around the middle. 

“No mutiny, sir. Would never dare to question your fine lead. That wasn’t a shanty but a ditty, though. Totally different things when it comes to structure and composition. I would never go against my captains orders.”

Geralt regarded the bard with one of his most menacing glares. The bard only smiled sweetly, feeling totally unthreatened.

“See that you do. Now of to the galley with you. There’s a sack of potatoes to peel.”

Jaskier groaned loudly but gave himself up to his fate. 

“I’m going to throw him into the sea one of these days,” mumbled Geralt, while he watched Jaskier disappearing under deck.

“No you won’t,” Eskel dissented knowingly. 

He glanced over his crew, jolly men rompishly laughing and joking about while doing their jobs and asking to pass the ‘whatsits’ and maybe getting them some ‘snarfblatts’ and ‘dinglehoppers’ while they were at it.

“I would have a real mutiny on hand if I tried, wouldn’t I?”

“’fraid so, Captain.”

“Mhh.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't have as much time for editing as I had hoped, so please be kind and keep in mind: not a native speaker, no beta, just a humble writer. 
> 
> [Have a look at our fine pirates in their robes.](https://drive.google.com/file/d/1fPNDdC4CgABkcP6815OVdTocTrgGDgZ1/view?usp=sharing)
> 
> Kudos if you get all the references.  
> Next chapter there'll be plot.


	3. Notos

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> \- in which a princess beheads Lambert, ghost ships are conquered, and winds are called on -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Before we start, please let me say thank you for all the kudos and comments. A round of big special virtual hugs goes out to the amazing readers who clicked ‘subscribe’ and declared themselves as committed to this wild cruise as I am. I’m feeling all warm and fuzzy. <3
> 
> Oh, also: I am horrible with tagging. I’m afraid I’m very insensitive when it comes to possible triggers and very hesitant to adding something that could count as spoilers. Please, people, tell me if you think a warning should be added.
> 
> The songs:  
> \- [Ragnar the Red](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=XGxXXCLiv4Q&ab_channel=StormieMcTrooper)  
> sung by the bard Mikael. OR the wonderful version of [Malukah](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eBo9IrJxQzw&ab_channel=Malukah). There is also a [metal version](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wdUW-9JJlCo&ab_channel=EdoardoMorelli), for those who dare to treat.  
> \- Play [You look good Jack](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Noq2uiUMpTc&ab_channel=HansZimmer-Topic) as background when the fog is mentioned  
> \- [Notos](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eMbVf8ikTxk&ab_channel=TheOhHellos-Topic)

It was a slow day so far, a light breeze billowing the sails. But instead of enjoying the nice sunny weather outside, Jaskier sat in the stuffy galley, cutting up cabbage. Whatever Vesemir had planned today, it involved a lot of pork. They had worked in silence for a while, the only sound of their knives and the constant crashing of the waves against Roach's hull.

Jaskier had his mind on a question for a while now. Vesemir seemed in the right mood too, so he went for it. 

“So… what's up with the whole ‘Witchers on a ship’ thing? Last I heard Witchers are averse to water. How did that happen?”

The mouth framed by Vesemirs salt and pepper beard turned into a small smile. 

“I was wondering when you would ask.”

He put down his knife and stood to open up a little cabinet, from which he pulled a bottle of rum and two tankards.

“Geralt took a contract about fifteen… twenty years ago? I am a bit unsure about that. Time isn’t relevant for us Witchers.” He poured both of them a generous helping. 

“Anyway, Geralt had this contract. A beast at the docks of Novigrad. And when he went back to the merchant who had asked for the threat to be removed, the guy somehow goaded Geralt into claiming the law of surprise. I have no idea why the boys do that, I always thought I have taught them better. I told them time and time again that nothing good comes of it. You either get horribly underpaid, end up with pets, or … other things Witchers usually can’t properly care for. But this time around Geralt ended up with a fucking ship.” 

Vesemir took a big swallow of his rum, shaking his head as if he still couldn’t believe it.

“When Geralt came home that winter and told us about that ship sitting out there in a Novigrad dock, we were all a bit stumped. The first idea was just to sell it and be done with the thing. But somehow Geralt had gotten this strange idea in his head.”

Jaskier tried to align the man that always brooded and grumbled with a guy who got 'strange ideas'. It was not that hard to do. It was always the silent ones who were a little bit crazy.

“You see, there are only two Witcher Keeps left. Kaer Seren and Hearn Caduch - home of the Griffins and Bears - had been mostly destroyed by riots. And where the humans couldn’t destroy everything, nature did the rest. Kaer Morhen had been attacked before and repairing what was left of it was constant hard work. We are no carpenters nor bricklayers; tried our best. But now we had this ship. Geralt came to the conclusion, that we should try to do it like the Cranes and take to the sea. Lambert instantly jumped at the idea, since he never liked the Keep anyway. For me, there were too many bad memories. Times and times again people tried to take our homes away from us. Maybe a new start for a new generation was the way to go.”

“And Eskel?”

“Eskel does what Geralt thinks is best. He always did. They are thick as thieves, these two, always were. They have been through a lot together.”

Jaskier tucked that information away for now.

“But aren’t Witchers monster hunters? Saving the normal folk from Drowners and forktails and foglets and stuff?”

“There are not enough monsters left on the continent. And on the rare cases, people willing to pay for getting these creatures killed are even rarer. Most barons rather send out a small army of soldiers than to send for us. They make deals with trolls or keep away from griffin nests. They tell themselves that leshen are forests gods, better to be left alone and have learned to bury their dead deeply enough not to attract ghouls. And if push comes to shove, the Cats are still roaming the Continent with their caravan.”

Jaskier had heard of those, had even tried to find them when he had been traveling on foot all over the continent.

“Turned out we found a niche. If there are any Cranes left, then we are not aware of them. We started out as just the four of us, but we had barely any idea of what we were doing. Luckily the Bears heard and wanted in. Since they traveled to Skellege often enough, overpaying greedy seamen to make the passage, or having to work for it, they showed us the ropes. But they are a private bunch. Didn’t want to have any more responsibility on their heads. No matter how often Geralt asked Junod or Ivo to be Captains or first mates, they always refused.”

There was some private joke in there, probably, for Vesemir smiled in fond memory. 

“Since we started out as privateers, we slew a bunch of sea monsters and I don’t know how many sirens. Got paid for it by the fishermen and merchants or some nobility with coastal land, too. And at one point the continental navy declared us as hostis humani generis, together with the other privateers out there, and began to shoot at us. We shot back. Now we are pirates.”

“Just like that?”

Vesemir shrugged and chucked the rest of his rum.

“And the rest of the crew?”

“Friends of Geralts, mostly. Or we picked them up along the way. Some have nowhere else to go. It’s hard times for anderlings. The Roach is a safe haven for anyone who needs it.”

With a meaningful look, Jaskier didn’t know how to interpret, Vesemir picked up his knife again and kept on cutting up meat.

The conversation was deemed to be over, it seemed.

Jaskier finished off his own tankard and went back to his cabbage.

———————————

He had been done with his duties for the day, happy to flee the galley for a while. The weather was too lovely to spend the day all cooped up, so he had grabbed his lute and found a nice place on a barrel under the mainmast. He plucked away on all twenty-four of the catgut strings, tuning them subconsciously by now, while he listened to Junod and Lambert. They were supposed to teach Ciri something or other with the sword but ended up telling stories instead. The bard had listened intently, hoping to get a few more adventures for his song circle. He quickly dropped the idea however when he noticed that Lamberts and Junods narrations were greatly exaggerated and getting even more unlikely and fantastical while they were trying to up each other. 

“And then I struck out to the forktail like this,” claimed Lambert while he demonstrated a very flashy sword swirling move, “and cut the bastards head right off!” 

Junod laughed loudly at that, his deep dark bass vibrating over the main deck.

“Lambert, you inspire me,” remarked Jaskier from his spot, plucking away on a melody. 

> There once was a hero named Lambert the Red  
>  he killed many monsters and men, so he said.

Lambert listened up when he heard his name, his breast swelling in pride. He struck a heroic pose, like one of the statues you could find in Toussaint.

> And the Witcher did swagger and brandish his blade  
>  As he told of bold battles and gold he had made  
>  But then he went quiet, did Lambert the Red  
>  When he met the shieldmaiden Ciri who said

The girl was always up to some shenanigans, so she lifted her own short sword, grabbing a lid from a wooden barrel to act as her shield and played her part with quiet glee. 

> Oh, you talk and you lie and you drink all our mead  
>  Now I think it's high time that you lie down and bleed

Ciri threatened Lambert with her sword, then tried some parades, which Lambert skillfully blocked. 

> And so then came clashing and slashing of steel  
>  As the brave lass Cirilla charged in full of zeal

They circled each other, both of them smiling devilishly, while acting out a playfight. Jaskier stopped playing, building up some anticipation for the outcome.

> And the braggart named Lambert was boastful no more  
>  When his ugly red head rolled around on the floor

The men around them, who had enjoyed the show by now, bellowed with laughter when Lambert first sputtered in indignation and then gave chase after the unfortunate poet, who tried to flee by scrambling up the rigging. Lambert was way faster than him, however, grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him down on deck again. 

“Defend yourself, scoundral!”

“Lambert, come on, it was a joke, I wasn’t-”

“Jaskier, catch!”, shouted Ciri, and threw her sword in his direction. It landed in the proximity of his feet. Lambert swung his blade wide and Jaskier had to duck to save his own head. He rolled to the side clumsily to get a grip on Ciris weapon. He skittered out of the way before the redhead shredded his last nice shirt. 

“Oh shit!” He tried to remember what little his brother Aprilis had shown him over a decade ago and barely parried Lamberts attack. He always had hated confrontations. His muscles already screamed when he lifted the sword time and time again to block Lamberts lazy attacks.

“What is this, bard? You are a pirate now, for fucks sake! You fight like a farmer.”

“How appropriate, because you fight like a cow,” remarked Jaskier, always the sharp-tongued smart-ass. Not that great of a comeback, really, but he was under a lot of stress here, okay?

He hopped on a crate to get a bit of leverage, but it only made Lambert attack his legs and midriff now, instead of his head. Jaskier must have looked like a dance monkey, bending this way and that, jumping into the air to elude the blade. His own sword was long forgotten, only a dead weight in his hand, so he let it clatter to the floor as a useless endeavor.

His instincts told him to arm himself with the only real weapons he had, the talents he had inherited as a Pankratz. He felt his hands drawing to the lute on his back. But this was Lambert. He wouldn’t really hurt him, would he? In a last attempt to escape the fight, he sprang from the crate, lifting his hands in the air, and grabbed a tow attached to the fore boom, pulling himself up on the wood and balancing to the foremast to get some space between himself and his attacker.

“You are really horrible at this,” commented Lambert with a sigh, fed up with his antics. He slowly lowered his sword as he saw no fun in his little game anymore.

“Yes, well, I _am_ a bard. What am I supposed to do, _sing_ you to death?”  
The readhead sighed deeply, shaking his head, and raised his hands up to help Jaskier down from his unsteady spot.  
“I’m gonna get you a gun.”  
“No, thank you.”  
“You will arm yourself. Meliteles tits and Veyopatis’ beard, you are basically helpless, even Ciri could beat you with a butterknife.”  
“Of course she could. She was trained by the best.” That made Lambert smile a little proudly. 

————————-

“SHIP AT STARBORD! THINK WE FOUND HER, CAPTAIN!”, Isengrim cried from his lookout. 

There was a bit of a bustle while everyone tried to see what Isengrim had spotted with his keen elfen eyes.

It was eerie, Jaskier thought. When he looked toward the open sea, there was a mass of fog, shifting and swirling, but condensed to a moving area. Jaskier couldn’t discern anything recognizable in its midst. But he was sure that there had to be something.

There. 

Was that a mast? He could have sworn he had caught glimpse of a flagging sail there.

It was a ship, drifting right there in the middle of the thick fog, he was sure of it now.

Geralt must have seen him squinting because he handed him his spyglass without question.

There was no sailor aboard the ship. No helmsman at the wheel, no men in the rigging. Not one soul on deck.

Upon closer inspection, he noticed tattered sails, a gaping hole in the aft hull and bombarded railings.

“A ghost ship,” Jaskier murmured, fascinated.

“We’ve been for the look-out for the Hangman’s Rover for a while now. We have an ongoing contract with a lord on the Verden coast to get rid of that fucking thing.”

Jaskier handed back the looking glass and wrapped his arms around himself, suddenly feeling a chill.

“Ivo, ready yourself. Get all the specter oil together, we don’t know how many we are dealing with. Lambert, bring her about, take in the sails, get a boat ready.”

While a few members were making a small boat ready to be launched, Jaskier noticed that neither Eskel nor Lambert readied themselves for a fight with some evil spirits. When only the Bear Ivo and Geralt clambered into the dinghy, Jaskier questioningly turned to Junod and Eskel, who carefully lowered the ship down via big ropes.

“Shouldn’t you be on this boat as well?” Jaskier asked with a slight nervousness in his voice. 

“No use. Two Witchers should be more than enough. And Eskel is second in command, so he has to stay in case they are going to swim with the fishes.”

He said it like it was no big thing that his friend and Captain could very much die on this endeavor.  
Jaskiers face went white with fright while he watched Ivo slowly paddling the small dinghy closer to the ghost ship.

———

Ivo and Geralt clambered onto the deck as silently as possible, oiled silver swords in one hand, an Yrden at the ready at the other. The fog was too thick to see much but a few feet in front of them. They communicated with hand signs when they noticed the deck was clear and slowly entered deeper into the belly of the ship.

When they entered the Captain cabin, there was a blackish cloud of a specter sitting in front of the rotting desk. The shadow didn’t seem to notice them, only starring down at the outlines of a logbook. After a little while, the shade looked up, startled and a whispy voice asked them ‘what do you think you are doing?’, raising his arms in surprise. Then there was a gurgle and the black shade collapsed into his seat, a dagger sticking out of his chest. The remnant dissolved and assembled itself anew at the desk, immersed in the logbook again.

Geralt looked around the cabin, but couldn’t find the dagger anywhere. Neither the logbook. If they were dealing with a particularly strong Wraith it could come in handy to find any objects that stood out and destroy them swiftly. 

They proceeded into the crew area where some more black shadows played out their last moments time and time again. It looked like a mutiny, the shades wrestling and stabbing each other. Ivo and Geralt advanced slowly, back to back, swords raised. The stench was horrible, for the carcasses of those souls still lay about in the last stages of decay. 

In the single bunk cabin, usually reserved for the first mate or quartermaster, they struck luck: a corpse in a state of stasis, decaying without actually composting, its flesh got eaten by leeches and maggots, a dagger in his eye.

When Ivo set fire to the body, a loud screech ripped all over the ship.

“Time to dance,” murmured Geralt, as the force of the sign released from his hand released a circle of pale purple lightning.

——————

“What was that?”, asked Jaskier nervously, when he heard a loud wail and noticed lilac and sickly green lights flickering through the thick fog. “What is happening?”

“Calm down, they got this,” said Eskel, grabbing one of Jaskiers hands that were nervously fidgeting. When the bard looked up into his strained face, eyebrows tightly drawn together, he wasn’t so sure whom Eskel was trying to reassure.

The longer they stood on the deck, muffled fighting noises occasionally reaching their ears, the more tense their bodies became.

They kept on holding each other's hands in reassurance. The uncertainty of what was happening while occasionally hearing shouts and earsplitting screams made their nerves stretched to breaking point. 

After what felt like an eternity, everything lapsed into silence.

Eskel and Jaskier pressed their hands even harder together, to the point of hurting.

Then the fog sluggishly dissipated and they heard a cracking and splashing, as the Hangman’s Rover was slowly swallowed by the remorseless sea. Some of the crew already yelled out in victory, hussa’s ringing out. But Jaskier and Eskel leaned over the railing with worry, trying to get a glimpse at Geralt and Ivo. The whipped up waves didn’t make it easier on them.

“There,” sighed Eskel, most of his worry leaving him when he spotted Ivos dark skin and Geralts silvery hair in the water.

Eskel threw down a rope ladder and helped to heave them over the railing. Ivo seemed to be fine, hands on his knees while trying to catch his breath. Geralt had wide gashes in his armor, but Eskel could smell no blood. He still grabbed at Geralt in worry, his hands roving over his body before settling on Geralts head. He cradled his cheeks and pressed their heads together, forehead to forehead.

Breathing each other's air in, both their nerves seemed to settle. Eskel leaned in closer to nuzzle his nose against the other wolfes. 

Jaskier seemed like a voyeur while witnessing this tender moment.

————

  
“Your brothers are idiots,” Jaskier proclaimed, when he sat down opposite of Lamberts, presenting him with dinner. 

“Yeah I know, but HEY!”, Lambert exclaimed in mocked offence. He studied his plate in curiosity, then guzzled down his ham hungrily.

“What makes you come to this very accurate and astute observation?” he asked around his food.

“You four have been on this cruise together for how long now?”

“Ages.”

“And Geralt and Eskel know each other even longer, right?”

“Over half a century, for sure.”

“Half a-! And they’ve never…” Jaskier made some suggestive gestures.

Lambert sighed deeply at that. 

“They did. Eskel was… is… well. Geralt of Rivia doesn’t catch something as atrocious as feelings.”

“Half a century, Lambert! Who does he think he is fooling here? They are so very in love with each other it hurts to look at all the pining.”

The young Witcher’s look was one of long suffering. “Tell me about it. Not getting involved in this mess anymore, though.”

Lambert looked at Jaskier in consideration.

“And if _someone_ intends to do something, then I just want it to be said, that there’s gonna be a broken nose for anyone who broke a heart.”

Jaskier received the message loud and clear. He couldn’t help himself smiling cheekily, though. “Is that why your own looks like that?”

“Fuck you, I’m a gentleman.”

“Sure you are, my darling Lambert.”

They ate in silence for a while.

“Got something for you, by the way,” Lambert remarked, when he had eaten his last slice of cheese and stood. With a sideways nod of the head, he indicated Jaskier to follow. They ended up on the lowest deck in the workshop, where Cahir and the gnome Percival had their little workspace. The workshop was crammed, but well lit from half a dozen lanterns. Percival was working on what looked like Geralts armor, mending leather and replacing little chainmail rings. When he noticed his guests, he grumbled about distractions and pointed to some leather work on a box.

“Not loaded until Zoltan approves,” he said, as if that would explain anything. And then Jaskier saw what Lambert had in hand: a fucking pistol and a small dagger in leather holsters. There had obviously been put some thought in the holster design, though. It wasn’t like the holsters of the Bears, who wore their weapons on their front and back. Neither was it the waist-high girdle, the Wolfes and elves preferred, or Zoltans shoulder belt. It was a leg holster instead with an extra strap to fasten around the thigh. It could be easily hidden under a long coat and would not hinder from wearing his lute on the back and swing it to the front in a move that was muscle memory to Jaskier by now. He knew from one of Zoltan's ramblings that the flintlock pistol was hard to load, but a small and light easy to use one-shot gun.

“Lambert, this is beautifully made, but I don’t-” “Shut up and take it, bard.”

Jaskier sighed deeply. He really wasn’t a big fan of weapons. It was cute, though, Jaskier thought. The way Lambert showed his affection by gifting him with deadly things. Gifting him with security. Protection. 

“Thank you.” Jaskier advanced cautiously and wrapped the redhead in a one-armed hug. 

“I promise not to shoot you. On purpose, that is.”

“Brat.”

“Git.”

——————

It had been two weeks since they had encountered the wraith ship. The days had gotten unbearably warm and the sea was a gentle thing, near to no ripples on its surface. Jaskier was done with his duties for now and had found a rolled-up rope nest to sit in, leaning against the mizzen mast to not be in the way. His fingers were as dextrous as ever, wandering over strings and silently picking songs about sunny weather and heatwaves, hot bodies, and warm summer nights.

His chemise was indecently open - not that anyone minded, really. Some members had foregone a shirt completely as soon as the weather allowed it and even Coen and Cahir, always mindful of their attire, had shredded some layers, their shirt sleeves rolled up to their elbows. Jaskier had been very easily distracted these days, his eyes roaming over muscled abdomens and sweaty torsos. The number of attractive people on this ship was bloody ridiculous.

He enjoyed his view from his little nest right now, actually: Geralt's black shirt had gotten too hot, so the ripped Captain was leaning over the maps with Eskel and Regis in nothing but his leather trousers. When the quartermaster had caught him staring, one eyebrow raised in mocking reproach, Jaskier had shrugged his shoulders, his small cheeky smile unashamed. Then his eyes had landed on Eskels lovely wide chest with its tantalizing chest hair and Eskel did this cute thing again, where he turned his scarred face and looked a bit overwhelmed. 

These two would be the death of him if they kept on looking this delicious and sweaty.

Only Regis didn’t seem to feel the heat at all. He was still wearing his whole regalia, gloves, and high collared dark padded robe over an earthen colored tunic. As pallid as ever.

“Isn’t it frustrating never to gain a tan?”, the bard wondered aloud. 

The vampire turned slowly from his maps, a small smile gracing his features.

“Isn’t it frustrating to be sweaty?”

“Touché.”

He did feel a bit gross, actually. A cold dunk in the sea sounded more tantalizing by the hour. He made himself a bit more comfortable, leaning against the mizzen mast with his head looking up like a flower reaching for the sun. 

“I think I have a heat stroke,” remarked Jaskier while squinting up at the mast for a good minute. “There are no ravens this far out at sea, are there?”

When the three men followed his gaze up, the raven glided down from his sitting place on the mast to get himself comfortable on the desk with the maps, croaking out a ‘caw caw’.

“He looks awfully intelligent. You think he can say the ‘N’ word?”

Eskel and Geralt looked at him questioningly, while Regis removed the small piece of rolled-up paper from one of the birds' legs, a hint of a smile gracing his lips. 

At least Regis appreciated his erudition. Savages, the lot of them.

Regis had handed over the note to Geralt, who read it quickly and set his eyes on the map again. 

“We got ourselves a contract. Forget the route to Hindarsfjall. How long to Bremervoord, Regis?”

The navigator sighed deeply.

“Can’t really tell. If the weather doesn’t pick up soon, we will have no other choice but to row to the nearest land, maybe fence some loot, pick up more proviant, and then set up a route from there.”

“What, why? What’s going on?” asked Jaskier.

Eskel looked at the sails pointedly, the few which weren’t gathered up at the yardarms hanging desolate and unused. 

“We’ve becalmed. The Roach has been drifting for two days now. Most lords or aldermen get sick of waiting for us to arrive and usually look for alternatives. Thing is, we could really use the money. We are in dire need of a wind right now, if we want to get this contract in time.”

“What kind?”

Eskel looked at Jaskier uncomprehendingly.

“Excuse me?”

“What kind of wind do you need?”

Jaskier bit his lip, deep in thought, while Eskel seemed to think that Jaskier was a little bit short of a marble from the heat.

“A wind of the south would be preferable. But any wind will do, really,” supplied Regis.

“Mh.”, hummed Jaskier, contemplative. He heaved himself out of his rope bundle and wandered about in thought. 

He tried to remember anything he could from when he had studied the winds. Notos, Euros and Lips were all south winds. His mind brought up pictures of a man who slowly emptied out a pitcher. A geriatric swathed in a heavy cloak. A young buck with wings holding the stern of a ship.

After a bit of inner debating and considering the cons and pros, he settled on Notos, the wet, storm-bringing south wind of late summer and early autumn. He was tame most of the time, his breath warm but strong. He would probably be the easiest to call this time of year. Maybe he would even rain down a bit of much-needed drink water and would fill their nearly empty barrels. The southwest wind Lips was too eager sometimes, crashing ships into coastal cliffs if he felt like it. Jaskier also wasn’t sure of the old and most powerful wind of the south-east, Euros, would be willing to even listen to him. He was the wind of autumn, after all, shaking trees to make leaves and fruits fall, dispelling the oppressing heat in all the lands. Being called upon for such a trivial thing would probably be interpreted as insolence and end with the Roach at the bottom of the ocean.

It didn’t really occur to him that he better shouldn’t do what he was about to do. He had been greeted by this ragtag group of pirates with nothing but kindness and goodwill, including him like a family member. He hadn’t felt so at home since he’d left his own family behind over more than ten years ago. It was time to give something back, he thought. He just hoped they wouldn’t catch on. He wasn’t really willing to disclose his true heritage. He could play it down as a lucky coincidence, though. For all they knew he was a bard and nothing more. 

Jaskier took a stance on the port side stairs, starring to the south, hoping for the best. 

This could end in disaster. He hadn't called on a wind in _years_. Or maybe nothing was going to happen at all?

Oh well. Time to find out. 

He picked out an easy tune, closing his eyes to let his intentions flow into the notes. A gentle request, although with rising tension. His tenor danced over the melody with a light touch, taking the easy song in a contemplative direction. 

> There's an eerie quiet  
>  On the southern levees  
>  With a halcyon sky and  
>  Atmosphere gone heavy

A warm breath caressed his cheeks, his neck. A warm kiss smelling of summer rain.  
So far, so good. He got some attention, it seemed. 

> There's a wind arising with the ire of Venus   
>  Tugging at the surface of the seas between us   
>  And its catalyzing with a breath of calefaction   
>  A thunderous disturbance, and for every action, a reaction

A breeze ruffled through Jaskiers hair now, making the bard smile. He felt the south wind flirting, playing with his lapels, tugging at sleeves. Jaskier indulged him and began to dance and swirl, expertly waltzing with him around the mainmast. Notos’ curiosity of him abetted, the south wind was softly blowing through the whole ship now, caressing skin, puffing into ears and ruffling hair, slowly dancing upwards into the canvas where he found more windage. 

A bit more, Jaskier thought, strumming louder, his voice rising.

> And the rush will take you away  
>  Like you're caught in the undertow   
>  And you will drown in the wake   
>  Of the things you lost to the winds of Notos

Geralt looked up to the mainsail, that had been hanging desolate and barren not a minute ago, suddenly billowing and gaining in tension, stretching the ropes. His mouth dropped open in wonderment for a second before he remembered himself. 

“All sails!” he screamed down at his crew and heard his order repeated over the deck. “Regis to the wheel. Course north northwest.”

Roach, who had been drifting over the ocean uselessly the last few days, obviously enjoyed the change of action, picking up at least three knots and gaining. 

Jaskier watched Notos dancing and swirling over the quarterdeck now, clearly enjoying the ode to his name. He tried to make the Witchers dance too, tugging on Geralt's ponytail insistently, blowing under Eskels shirt and the vampire's robes, making them billow majestically. 

Jaskiers gaze drifted over Geralt, then Eskel. Maybe Notos could blew some sense between their ears, too. 

> And every word you wouldn't say   
>  Will come bubbling out of your throat   
>  For you've got no one left to blame   
>  or things to loose to the winds of Notos

Said wind ruffled the bards bangs one more time, as if to say ‘nice one, kid.’, then blew into the north, taking the Roach with him. 

Jaskiers plucking and strumming on his lute pattered away, the last notes taken up, up, up, by the taut puff that now billowed the sails. 

“Oh, look. A wind. What are the odds?”

Geralt glared at him, his eyebrows drawn in a disbelieving frown.

“Did you just-?”

“Sing a shanty? No. Just a song. An ode, I guess. No shantying on your watch, Captain, you made that very clear.”

“No, I mean the wind. How-?”

Jaskier yawned widely, his jaw cracking and shrugged, making a dismissive gesture with his hand. 

“Really cool, right? I love it when coincidences like that happen. Makes the performance so much more satisfying. Whatever. Glad I don’t have to row anywhere, though. I could use a nap.”

As if to emphasize his need, the bard once again gave a good yawn, then sat back down on his previous place at the foot of the mizzen mast, and fell asleep promptly.

The Witcher just stood there, a hand on his wolf amulet, trying to figure out if there was some kind of magic involved.

“That was just a stupid fluke, right?”, asked Geralt, suspicious. He looked down at the bard who looked a bit ridiculous in his nest of ropes, lute hugged to himself, snoring away quietly.

“Pretty sure it was. Still… he’s a hell of a performer, isn’t he? So much life crammed into him. For a moment there I thought he was glowing.”

When he looked up again, he noticed the totally besotted look on his brother's face.

Something unknown to him twisted in his guts. He ignored it and went back to his duties. They had a contract to get to. 

—————-

The night sky was something beautiful out here, Jaskier thought, as he watched the moon and the stars throwing their white light upon the water who reflected it back in a sparkling mass of constantly moving twinkles. Jaskier had been way too well rested to go to sleep after his restoring nap, his thoughts running a mile a minute. He had picked a quiet and abandoned spot on the forecastle deck, hidden from the eyes of the three men working the night shift, nursing a bottle of rum.

Had he been too transparent? His little stunt too obvious?  
For the first time since joining the crew under the White Wolf, he considered the idea of jumping ship. They all were a bunch of lovable idiots, but they weren’t stupid. Vesemir as well es Regis were wise men and would figure him out sooner rather than later. Coming clean wasn’t an option for him, either. He liked his anonymity. Enjoyed just being Jaskier, a humble bard.

“You stare out at the sea like a man wondering if perhaps jumping in would be the best solution to all of his problems - that what he seeks will only ever be found deep down, at the bottom of the ocean.”

Jaskier laughed at that and held out his rum bottle. Eskel accepted it with a thankful nod and took a long sip.

“Very poetic for a Witcher. I didn’t know you were into poetry.”

“I enjoy beautiful things.”

They glanced at each other. Jaskier countered Eskels playfully twinkling gold with a challenging gaze. Then it wandered over his unique face and down to plush lips.

“So do I. Ciri said something to me the other day. And it reminded me about all the places I haven’t seen yet and stuff I still don’t know about. About all the beauty in the world, I still hadn’t the pleasure to experience yet. Like… what a lychee tastes like.”

“What’s a lychee?”

“Exactly,” chuckled Jaskier.

They enjoyed the silence for a bit, passing the bottle back and forth, their shoulders touching.

“You don’t have to look past the railings of this ship to see something beautiful, though,” flirted Jaskier.

“Ah… yes. Geralt is … something else.”

Jaskier looked up in surprise at that. Eskel misinterpreted.

“I’ve seen how you look at him. You want him.”

“And you love him.” 

Eskel didn’t deny.

Jaskier lifted his arms, making his intentions known, then softly glided his hands over Eskels face, caressing his scars, his lips and nose.

“I wasn’t talking about him, though, my pretty Witcher,” Jaskier said, a burst of light laughter on his lips, as warm and carefree as a spring breeze. Wise cerulean eyes full of adoration and worship.

Eskel blinked at that a few times, struggling to believe. 

“I am not him”, he stated, pressing his hand over the one caressing his scarred cheek, as if to emphasize his shortcomings. 

Jaskier laughed at that too. A breathy chuckle, low and inviting.

“Believe me, I know.”

Their lips met, soft and simple. But it still send a wave of pleasure through Eskels spine, an intoxicating rush that made him bite back a surprised moan. When Jaskier retreated again he felt robbed and blessed at the same time.

When he gazed at Jaskier through half-closed eyes, he noticed the bard's expression, not regretful but unsure, anticipating Eskels next move. As if he had dealt all his cards.

Eskel was on him in an instant, kissing him with all he had, which elicited a beautiful sound from the minstrel, something between a moan and a laugh. Tongues and teeth got involved, Their arms wandered on each other, into their hair, their necks, over arms and waists. Under shirts and over skin. A hissed ‘yes’ let Eskel know, that playfully biting into his neck line had been a very nice touch. Acting purely on some animal instict, he picked the bard up, fell on his knees and carefully guided Jaskier to lie on his back.

He bucked his hips to test the waters and yes. Yes, Jaskier was very much on board with his ideas. Having the bard pined on the forecastle deck like that, moonlight in his hair, lips kissed red, he had absolutely no intentions to let him escape anytime soon. When he noticed Jaskiers hands on his belt, tugging eagerly, he took those nimble artifacts of seduction by the wrists and placed them over Jaskiers head, pinning them to the wood.

Jaskiers groan was filthy.

“Sweet tits of Melitele. You manhandling me like that? Very sexy. What’s your plan then? Now that you have me at your mercy.”

Eskels smile was devilish. “I have a lot of those. But let’s start with the most recent and work our way down the list.”

The last rational thought left Jaskiers brain when Eskel slowly worked his free hand down his trousers, a tongue in his mouth and whispered desperate pleas from his throat. Jaskiers song was something otherworldly, Eskel thought, the sounds of it driving him absolutely wild, and might even end in coming in his trousers like an inexperienced pup. He stroked Jaskiers cock in an unrelenting rhythm now, the angle awkward and their positions on the hard wooden deck uncomfortable, but neither of them cared, too far gone and too desperate for release. Eskel rubbed himself on Jaskiers thigh now, matching his unrelenting pumping. When he bit into Jaskiers neck again, something in Jaskier gives. He went rigid, then trembled beautifully and slammed his head onto the deck when his orgasm hit. His barely stifled moan is the hottest fucking sound Eskel had ever heard.

He watched in fascination as Jaskier tried to put himself together again, his body still trembling, breathing fast and warm. Eskel put his nose into his sweaty hair, taking in the intoxicating smell of him.

When Jaskier finally found his words, there was this breathy chuckle again, light and happy.

“Now this was just pitiful. Not you or the orgasm, mind you. That was glorious. But coming in my pants in a matter of minutes? Pitiful. I’ve got a reputation to uphold, you know. This will not do. Off, you beast. My turn. Let me worship you.”

Eskel was still painfully, achingly hard. So he allowed to let himself be rolled on his back and …

Oh shit. Yes. Worship indeed. Jaskiers tongue was as dangerous as his fingers. 

Eskel felt himself unravel under Jaskiers loving ministrations

They snogged each other well until the first morning hours. Eskel hadn’t known that this … mutual affection thing could be so easy. So uncomplicated and fun. Jaskier made it all seem so effortless.

They lay in each others arms, watching the sun rise, occasionally sharing kisses. 

“So… how do we proceed here?”, asked Jaskier in a half-whisper, while running his fingers through Eskels chest hair. “If you’d prefer to… I can be discreet.”

There was a round of loud snorts from the main deck.

“Discretion of a Dancing Star more like,” commented the deep grumbly bass of Junod.

Jaskiers eyes widened comically then muffled his groan of mortification in Eskels pecs. 

“Fucking Witcher ears.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While reading through this one more time before clicking ‘publish’ I noticed some things I would like to improve already. I know I am not the most descriptive writer, rely too much on dialogue and sprinkle in too many references that probably only 90s kids and nerds are going to understand. I hope this small offering is pleasing you anyway. Hit that Kudo button if you liked it and use the comment section on what you would like to see more of. I thrive on criticism.  
> Stay safe and see you next Saturday, when Geralt will speak to a mermaid.


	4. The little Mermaid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> \- in which a side character loves an unattainable woman - 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello there, people. I found myself with a tight schedule tomorrow on short notice, so you get this a day early. May I hear a 'yahoo'? Anyway, the editing was a bit rushed, so please ignore possible errors I might have missed. 
> 
> Only one song this time. You can choose between a [male](https://open.spotify.com/track/5GHsZwbiOUhtlYwcJlFyka?si=jO9W3RDbQU2XkcjzYhNdIg) or a [female](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SR7QTKe1D7Q&ab_channel=HeatherDale-Topic) version.
> 
> CW for unintended voyeurism/listening-in

The news about Eskel and Jaskier snogging were out and about on the ship in less than half a day. Not that anyone really minded. It wasn’t even big news, since most had seen it coming, apparently. Some of the members had just shrugged at the newest gossip and went on with their tasks. There had been all kinds of affairs going on over the years. It’s a normal thing considering the only company you can turn to while sailing for months on end is a crew member or your own hands. 

The only rule Geralt had about intermingling was ‘no drama on the Roach’. They could scream and cry all they wanted when they were on shore leave. 

Geralt wondered what made the guy so attractive to Eskel, besides the long legs, pretty eyes, and inviting pout.  
Jaskier talked a lot, while somehow not really saying anything. All his stupid songs about adventure and life at sea or random ditties had no depth. Just fillingless pies that were nice to listen to but not really meaningful. He sang to distract, composed to deflect. Was it only Geralt who seemed to notice that the bard was hiding something under all his chipper attitude? 

He didn’t believe that the bard was actually that bright idiot he pretended to be. Because he apparently was perceptive. Intelligent. But very fidgety. Always moving, hands playing with something if his lute wasn't an option. He had fast mood swings, which drove Geralt nuts. How many emotions could someone have? 

Also easily bored.

Geralt had noticed Jaskier wandering about the deck, looking at tows and sails, following them with his eyes to figure out their purpose. He would sometimes look at an apparatus or knot like it was a puzzle, smiled to himself when he got it figured out, then marveled at the science behind it for a bit, only to make the matter drop like a child would drop a toy. The only thing that could hold his attention for hours on end was the sea, it seemed. Geralt couldn’t figure out if it was the movement of the waves or the sheer mass of it that seemed to bedazzle him. Bt it sure as hell couldn’t be the scenery. The constant blue wasn’t the most entertaining thing to look at.

Maybe Eskel liked him because Jaskier was always so _warm_ and _there_. With his fond words and nimble hands, his observant eyes and soft touches. Jaskier seemed to be made to love the world, with his overflowing affection spreading in every nook.

It was annoying, decided Geralt. Yes. Annoying. 

Jaskier must have noticed his gaze, for not a moment later he stood right beside him and greeted him with a light shoulder bump. 

“What has our dear Captain so broody today? This doesn’t look like your usuall brooding, either. Something the matter? May your humble cabin boy be of any assistance?”

“Mh.”

“Is that the ‘no, thanks’ mh? Or the ‘fuck off’ mh? I can never quite discern them. It’s only the ‘I am listening but really don’t care’ mh I can instantly recognize by now.”

“I don’t get you.”

Jaskier seemed thoughtful at that.

“Well, of course you don’t, I am complicated by nature. I don’t get you either, sometimes. Can anyone claim that he actually _gets_ a person?”

“This. Right there. Occasionally you have these wise insights and the rest of the time you are a total idiot.”

Jaskier sputtered at that, hands on his hips in outrage. When he finally found his words, he had an accusatory forefinger too close to Geralts face. “Excuse me, I am a well-educated bard and in no way or form idiotic.”

“You think? And yet you dare to call me adorable. Only idiots and suicidal people would call any Witcher something so absurd.”

“But it’s true! You _are_ a man to adore. You are not that abnormal thing you think yourself to be. You impose your otherness onto people, already annoyed with what you _believe_ the reaction to you will be, not understanding that reasonable people recognize you are a very normal man. You think you are a misfit and you are clearly deceiving yourself with that notion. Your stony face and cold voice can not deceive me. You are sensitive, dear heart. You love Ciri like a daughter, are kind to your crew, brave and heroic, and would do anything to save anyone on this ship. You don’t show it because you have a reputation as a gruesome pirate Captain to uphold, but your heart is one of the biggest I have yet encountered. You care. So much. You are like sexy bread.”

Geralt blinked, wondering if he misheard.

“…bread?”

“Yes. All dark, cracked and crusty on the outside, but soft, sweet and squishy on the inside.”

“Squishy.”

“Maybe not my best similie, but the allegory is sound.”

Geralt was pretty sure that the bard was short of a few marbles. He really hoped he didn’t do the wrong thing with his next words. 

“When we arrive in Bremervoord, I want you to keep an eye on Ciri. Eskel and Lambert will have their hands full with flogging the loot. She likes you. And you are … good with her.”

Jaskiers smile lit up like he wanted to rival the sun. This was as close as praise he had ever gotten from the Captain. 

Geralt felt something warm spread in his chest. And also something unruly.

Jaskier _got him_ better than most. Himself included, maybe.

—————

There, on a rock a little further out, not far off the Dragonfang bay, lay a mermaid, shaking her willow-green hair and presenting her perfect breasts to the sun. Her scales shimmered in different shades of nephrite and lapis lazuli, the white foam of the sea gushing around her like frills.

“Tell her that I love her. That I think about her every minute of every day, and then dream of her as soon as I close my eyes. That she is the only one for me and that I intend to wed her.” demanded the duke Agloval in anticipation, his gaze not leaving the figure of the mermaid, who arched her upperbody gracefully.

Geralt blinked. Once. Twice. 

“You do realize she is a mermaid, yeah?”

“I am well aware. I have in my possession a magical elixir that will make her grow legs so she may forever be by my side. Tell her that I can provide for her, will treat her like a proper queen and she will have to miss nothing with me.”

“Except for her tail, that is.” Geralt sighed deeply. “Let me see, what I can do.”

Melitele save him from excentric contractees. When he accepted the easy translation job, he hadn’t expected that he would play matchmaker, too. He didn’t get paid nearly enough for this shit. 

Geralt seated himself in the cog and grabbed for the rudders when Agloval and two of his men made the move to get into the little boat with him. One of them had a big fishing net thrown over his shoulder. Big enough to catch a man… or mermaid for that matter.

Agloval sure was determined to get what he wanted, one way or another. 

“Your Grace, I don’t think that’s wise,” remarked Jaskier. 

He too had eyeballed the net with well-hidden disbelief, exchanging a quick look with Geralt. A distraction was in order to keep the supposedly lovestruck man away from the mermaid for now.

“When we sailed into the cove our men have seen a kraken not far out. With due respect, maybe it is safer if you stay on land.”

“A kraken?” Agloval looked out at the water, a bit fearful now. “But no, I need to come with. A bit of fear is nothing compared to my undying love for her. I need to make my intentions clear in person. That it is I who wants her as his wife and not the Witcher. Or maybe he’ll even… take advantage of being alone with her.” His last world were laced with suspicion and jealousy. 

“If your beloved would act on it then she surely doesn’t feel the same way as you do. The White Wolf is a noble man and will honor this contract, I assure you. He will deliver your message as you intend it to be received.”

Agloval still seemed unconvinced.

“We would also take use of that hospitality you granted us via contract. We fished a kid out of sea on our way here who is in dire need of a warm meal and a bath.”

Ciri, gods bless her soul, played along beautifully, half hiding behind him, as if in fear, while looking at the duke with her big green eyes, making a hopeful puppy dog impression. Hair windswepped and wearing a shirt a bit too big on her, she looked unkempt enough to make it believable.

“If you could help a young child out? I would write an ode to your kind heart and hospitality. It will be written into the chronicles of humankind that Agloval, the Kindhearted, helped women and children in need.”

Agloval looked disgruntled but finally convinced. 

“It is probably for the best. There’s a wedding I have to attend this evening and I have to dress accordingly. Follow me. We have a set of guest rooms ready for you pirate lot.” 

He left Geralt to his duties, leaving one of his men with him so he could find his way back, and led them to the fort.

“You are really good at this,” whispered Ciri and grabbed Jaskiers hand. 

“Not bad yourself,” he praised lowly. “If we play this right, you will be pampered beyond words. Soft bed with furs, new pair of shoes, candies maybe. I promise to get you some cake.”

Ciri smiled up at him, mischief in her eyes. 

—————

Jaskier was proud to say that after a bit of friendly interaction with the servantry, Ciri not only got a nice warm bath but some fresh clothes too. Jaskier took full advantage of their scheme, too. And while the bath water hadn’t been hot anymore, he felt cleaner than he had in weeks. Oh, how quick something as normal as some warm water could turn into a luxury, he wondered.

The promise of cake, saddly, had been a lie.

The elderly matrons had dotted on Ciri, though, and had presented her with leftovers from breakfast, which were still so much better then what they got while at sea. That's how Geralt found them about an hour or two later, stuffing themselves with delicacies and fresh fruit, taking advantage of the soft mattress, and Jaskier trying to untangle the nest of Ciris still damp hair.

“How did it go?”, Ciri demanded to know without preamble. 

“Let’s just say that they deserve each other.”

“Why’s that?”, Jaskier asked in curiosity. 

“Sh’eenaz is the same kind of insufferable.”

He then told them about the mermaid's attitude, about her demands that Agloval see a sea witch to turn his legs into a fishy tail. That she insisted on a little sacrifice to be made.

“A little sacrifice all right. They demand the other to sacrifice _everything_. If they really were in love as they said, they’d make that sacrifice as fast like the snap of a finger for each other. Which is not exactly healthy,” he told Ciri in his teaching voice. “It’s always better to keep a little bit of your brain, even with matters of the heart. A _little_ sacrifice on both their parts would be far better. A compromise so to speak...”

Jaskiers voice trailed off and his eyes went thoughtful. 

————————————

Late after noon they presented themselves before the duke, who was anxiously awaiting Geralts report upon Sh’eenaz’ answer. He paced behind his chair, his advisors sitting with their backs uncomfortably straight. They sat themselves on the opposing side of the table when Agloval gestured to them insistently to get on with the matter. 

Geralt formulated the mermaid's response as diplomatically as he could manage. He left out her comments about his ‘hideous pegs’ or looking like a ‘four-armed starfish’.

“She likes you, too. Would agree to marry you in an instant. But if you really desire to marry her, you must have a tail and fins. She insisted on that repeatedly. If you are not willing to make this sacrifice she suggested to go fu- uh … drown yourself.”

Aglovals face was as red as a tomato with rage.

“Oh, _I am_ the one to grow some slimy fins and ugly gills? While she won’t make grow herself some perfectly nice normal legs? I’ll show that hussy. Dobieslaw, make that pool ready. Zelest, first thing tomorrow you take some men and angle my future wife out of the bay. Let’s see how she likes that. A month in my presence and she will rethink her decision and drink that potion or Melitele help her.”

“What an exceptionally dumb idea.”

Jaskier had only meant to mumble that to himself. But of course he had the pleasure of saying it while Agloval had paused in his rant.

The whole table looked at him. Aglovals expressions seemed somewhat of a mix between put out, offended and confused. Mostly offended. While his profile was usually attractive and kingly, right now he looked downright ugly.

“And I say that with the most respect, your Grace.” Jaskier quickly added, remembering his manners.

“You may be fiercely in love right now. But what about the future? Just think about your plan for a bit. She takes the potion, you will have a grand wedding, a glorious honeymoon, and you will breathe a heart-felt ‘I love you’ into each others ears. You would want to make up for missed time and spend every part of your days with each other. And maybe that’s it. Your happily ever after. But what if after spending so much time with each other, suddenly the little things you first found so attractive and charming are driving you a little mad? There are going to be fights. Bitterness for what you took from her. For being ripped from her home and family, her friends and her bygone life. She will resent you for it. Hate you, even. A romance turned tragedy. Do you want that? Are you willing to take this responsibility on you? To destroy the life of the woman you claim to love?” 

Agloval looked like a petulant child now but didn't seem deterred. 

“If you are very unlucky the sealife will turn on you. You make most of your coins by diving for pearls from the bay, right? Imagine the merfolk taking that from you because you took their daughter and sister from them.”

That seemed to freeze Agloval in its place, at last.

“I am not saying that what you have isn’t true love, my lord. I am just pointing out that most of the time, people don’t love people, they just love the feeling of being in love. And when that feeling goes away…”

“What do you suggest then, bard?”

Jaskier smiled, stood, and positioned his lute.

“What every good relationship is based on: a compromise. Do you really think you are the first human to fall in love with a mer?”   
The bard elicted from his lute an easy tune, from which an elegant and soothing melody emerged.

> Lord, long have I loved you as a selkie on the foam.  
>  I would gladly go and wed ye and be Lady of your home  
>  But I cannot go into the ocean, I cannot go into the sea.  
>  I would drown beneath your waves, love, if I went along with ye.

In his clear tenor he told the story of the lovers, one from land, the other from the sea, unable to live in the world of the other, for the first wouldn’t be able to breathe underwater and the second would die ashore within a few short moments. But the women had a grandmother, wise and knowledgable, who told them of a fine artefact. 

> Lord, I know not how to aid you – you may never live on shore.  
>  For your kind to live 'til dawning has ne'er been seen before.  
>  But my mother had a seal-coat that she buried 'neath a tree  
>  For she told me that its wearer would become a fair selkie.

The song ended with the lovers, finally joined, for the women put on the selkie coat and was able to live underwater with her lover.  
Geralt couldn’t help but be entranced by Jaskiers performance. It was different than his usual ditties, for those were for entertainment. It was even different than that song about the wind, for Jaskier had seemed to sing that not for anybody, but for himself, too caught up in his enjoyment to look if his audience liked it. This right here though, was the essence of what a bard was; a storyteller and keeper of history. While singing he had looked into space as if retelling what he once himself had seen. Geralts mind was reeling with the many faces the bard seemed to put on like hats. 

When the last note was silently fading away, Jaskier bowed to his audience with a dip of the head. Most of them were too entranced still by the haunting melody, to give him a big hand for it.

“So what?”, asked Agloval after a bit of consideration. “I should … find myself a selkie coat?”

“Either a selkie coat or some artifact of that measure. You would be able to visit your beloved in the sea, but wouldn’t have to bind yourself to a life underwater for all eternity. You could return to land any time you desired, tending to your business or other, then put the coat on again to return to Sh’eenaz. Neither one of you would have to sacrifice something you couldn’t live without.”

“That’s … not a bad idea, actually.”

“I aim to be of service, your Grace,” commented Jaskier jovial, although the people who knew him could discern the sarcastic tone.

Agloval passed behind his chair a few more times. Then he turned to Geralt, calculating.

“Witcher, you are in luck. Your bard just made sure you wouldn’t leave empty-handed. I won’t pay you what I promised for the translation, for you did nothing to help the matter. But if you find me that selkie coat, I’ll pay you your own weight in silver. Your crew may rest for the night in the chambers provided, as promised. Never let it said that I am an ungrateful host.”

“As you will,” answered Geralt, stonefaced.

“Now I’ll take my leave. I have to show my face at that stupid wedding from the dean of the merchants guild.”

—————————

Geralt was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to make use of a nice mattress for once. After dealing with Agloval he had instantly sent a message to Yennefer through magical raven. If they wanted to earn that money and find that seal coat, they needed a bit more help than just sailing around mindlessly and hoping to stumble upon information. He had made sure that his crew and the Roach had been taken care of, then had tucked up Ciri and left her under Milvas watchful care and deadly arrows.

The only thing left to do was to find and inform Eskel and then he could finally get a bit of shut-eye. 

He rounded the corner into the corridor, when he heard noises. 

Was that a scream?

He was instantly on alert, partly unsheathing one of his many blades, silently prowling into the direction of the distress call.

There it was again. A higher-pitched whine. Then a gasp. 

But then he recognized the voices and the door he was standing before now and thought himself an utter fool. 

“Fuck, the things you do to me.” Jaskiers voice, breathy.

“Tell me,” demanded Eskels voluptious bass.

“Your shoulders, your hands, your eyes, your fucking voice. Get in me. Come on. Wanna feel you. Want you to wreck me.”

Instead of getting a move on like any other halfway respectable person, Geralt just… coudn’t. His legs were lead, Jaskiers voice like a sirens song.

Kissing noises. Then a deep groan. 

“I don’t deserve you,” rumbled Eskel humbly.

“No, I don’t deserve you. I want to drop to my knees every time I see you smile like that.”

More kissing. Jaskier let out a chocked sop. Then skin slapping on skin. Slowly, attentavely. More groaning.

Geralts imagination was flooded with all the possibilities, enticing pictures of Jaskiers thighs wrapped tightly about Eskel. Hands wandering. Tongues exploring.

He felt his heart beating faster. His mouth going dry. He really shouldn’t be here.

“You are - fuck - have you any idea how many people run screaming when they see my face? And you just… you never smell like fear.”

Some shuffling. More slapping.

Jaskier let out a surprised gasp, then a high whine. 

Geralt tried not to imagine Jaskier arching from the bed while Eskel got the angle _just right_. He vaguely remembered the feel of Eskel in him. His thick hard cock filling him up until he felt like he was split in two. 

“The fact you are not afraid - blows my mind - but”, Eskels sentence got disrupted by a deep groan, “- but that you want me. Jaskier, you - I wanted - you are _everything_.”

The way he said it, like a disciple praying to a god, sent Geralts mind reeling.

This wasn’t just some passing fancy, like the few other beaus Eskel had over the years. This was something deeper. Meaningful. Geralts heart felt some net, it always thought it would have, removed. A deep chasm making itself known. No safety net anymore. Just a thin rope a piece of him was hanging on to. 

There was muted groaning. Kissing. Gasps. The slapping noises getting faster. Geralt lost sense of time while listening in on them like a dirty voyeur.

A hoarse whine. A throaty moan. The beautiful duett made Geralt feel the heat rising in himself. His halfhard cock swelling. 

“Eskel, I -”

“Yesss, come on lark. Sing for me.”

Geralt didn’t even feel his fists forming, his hands pressing tightly when Jaskier came with the most enticing whimper. Neither did he feel it as his fist connected with the next best surface, when he heard Eskel's deep groan turn into his dreamy post-coital bliss sigh. 

“Eskel,” Jaskier whispered a moment later. “Eskel, dear heart, not to destroy the moment here, but I think someone just knocked at the door? I would totally go, but I can’t feel my legs yet and then there is the matter of your come still dripping out of me.” 

He heard some grumbling and a giggle, and before Geralt could make his legs move again, the door he just had rammed his fist into was opened by a bare chested Eskel, ready to scold whoever dared to interrupt his afterglow. Hair askew and a sheen of sweat over his scarred torso, he looked nothing like the awkward adolescent Geralt had rolled in the hay with in the Kaer Morhen stables. He was so _much more enticing_ now. 

Eskels scowl turned into surprise, his eyes widening. “Geralt.”

Geralts face was made of stone. Not his usual grumpy scowl but utterly impenetrable. There was no denying that he had heard what had been going on. 

Eskel had no idea what to say. How to react. An instict told him to apologize. But a little voice inside his head asked, ‘why should you?’.

So they just starred at each other. Awkward and tounge-tied. 

“I just - mhh. Send word to Yennefer. We’ll sail to Attre midmorning.”

“Geralt, wh-”

Before Eskel had the chance to say anything more to the Witcher, Geralt was walking down the corridor to his own guest room. 

He looked after him for a moment, unsure what to do. A hand on his arm startled him out of his reverie. 

“Jaskier, I am-”

THe bard interrupted his stammering with a kiss. 

“Just shut up and get in there.” He gestured towards Geralts room with his head, then handed him his shirt. 

“You’ve known each other your whole life. And we met each other - what, a few weeks ago? I’m not important right now. Go after him. Because he certainly won’t be coming to you, the repressed bastard. And actually _talk_ for once. That silent communication thing clearly hasn’t been working for -oh some decades or so.”

Eskel pressed his forehead against Jaskiers and breathed in the heady aroma he had started to miss whenever he couldn’t smell it. He stole one more kiss, plucked up his courage and went down the corridor to face this mess. 

Jaskier sighed deeply.

Okay then, he thought, bereft. 

Maybe that was that. Maybe this was the catalyst they had needed to get back together.

He felt a bit numb at the thought. 

Jaskier didn’t want to go back to the room where the smell of their actions still hung in the air. The thought that this possibly could have been his last night with lovely, caring, sensitive, strong Eskel made something in his gut lurch and stumble.

He retrieved his doublet and lute and looked for some place else to sleep tonight.

  
—————

Eskel took his time to knock on Geralts door. He knows Geralt. At least he did, once. And pressuring him mostly made him retreat only more into his shell. He needed to let him cool down, settle his stormy thoughts first. But that look on him… that stony impenetrable mask had spoken volumes to Eskel.

Geralt had been hurt to the marrow.

He knocked softly and when he tried the door he found it to be open. He carefully entered, closing the door behind him with a soft click.  
Geralt sat on the bed, still stony-faced, fists clenched and tension rolling over his shoulders.

“I am here to talk. And I am not going to put up with your silence shtick. Staying quiet for convenience sake, so we don’t have to reveal or deny anything? Not working for us, so I’ve been told.” He took a deep lung full of air in, trying to gather his words and thoughts.

“What happened to us, Geralt? We had been… after your thing with Renfri and the nightmare that was Deidre we somehow… drifted apart. It’s like the shadow of the black sun has been transferred to us. And now there is this big rift and I don’t…” Eskel tapered off. He realized that he was still standing at the door, which felt awkward like he was prepared to bold any time.

He sat down on the bed beside Geralt, far away, but yet too close.

“I don’t know what is going on in that head of yours right now. But I… I just want to not hurt anymore? And Jaskier is … like drinking a tasteful batch of Swallow. It just happened, you know? And I am sorry if I am hurting you with this. We can keep it private if it bothers you, and I am sorry-”

“Stop apologizing,” Geralts voice was grating, tight, but the tension was slowly leaving his shoulders. “We’ve never been exclusive anyway. Never been jealous either.”

“Then stop acting like you are.” 

Geralt thought about this for a second. Was he? Jealous, that is.

“Maybe it’s… not an act. I don’t even know what I’m jealous about. But you’ve never been this serious with anyone either.”

Eskel laughed at that, self-depricating. “I don’t think Jaskier sees it the same way, though. He’s a notorious flirt, if you haven’t noticed. Given the chance, he would jump anyone like a tree. You, in particular.”

“Yeah, his come-on lines need some work before that happens. He called me a sexy bread.”

Eskel chuckled at that and let himself fall backward on the bed. “He’s something else, isn’t he?”

“Mh.”

Geralt collapsed onto the bed as well. If Eskel minded his shoulder being used as a pillow, he didn’t say. 

They hadn’t been this _together_ for years, they realized. It was nice. Just enjoying each other's company, breathing in the scent of the other, and bathing in the feeling of not being alone.

“I promise, I’ll try to be less of an ass about this. I’ve no idea, why I even… It’s hypocritical and unfair. You never reacted about Yen that way.”

“Oh, I did. Just not where you could see.”

Geralt looked up at Eskel at that, surprised.

“I’ve come around. I don’t get what you two have, but it makes you happy and that’s all that matters.”

“Mh.”

Geralts mind was whirling. Eskels emotions in uproar.

But here they were, claiming to need no one, but needing each other anyway.

Maybe that rift wasn’t so big after all. 

They fell asleep like that, content and warm.

———————-

The crew of the Roach was assembled on the main deck, doing their tasks in the tempo of snails while occationally glancing at the harbor in dwindling expectance. Everyone knew that they were stalling the inevitable.

Some of them had jokingly predicted that he would jump ship as soon as he had the chance. They shouldn’t have anticipated for Jaskier to keep on sailing with them. Still they all had somehow hoped for it. THe bard had been a wild card from the start. And nobody could really hold it against him when he did what he was set out to do - being a wandering bard and looking for stories and adventure on the Continent. 

Still, thought Eskel, looking over the harbor, his eyes searching for a blue doublet.

Still.

Geralt and Eskel exchanged a look, their thoughts elusive. Then Eskel nodded, a bit of sadness showing through.

“Enough dillydallying, landlubbers! - Cast off! Weigh the anchor!”, screamed Geralt.

When he had went back after his talk and impromptu nap, the bard hadn’t been there. Maybe he shouldn’t have gone after Geralt. Maybe staying with Jaskier last night would have been the better choice. For all three of them. 

For the whole crew, really. As soon as he had greeted Lambert this morning, his brother had known that something had shifted. He hadn’t said anything, though. Just looked at him and sighed audibly, patting him on the shoulders. 

They had already drifted a good bit away from the docks, hoisting the small sails, when they suddenly heard a “OY YOU SCALLAWAGS! WHAT THE HELL!” yelled from the piers.

When Eskel whipped his head around, he saw the bard running like the devil was coming for his soul. Without hesitation the troubadour jumped into the water with a twill, then started to crawl.

Lambert and Eskel caught each other's gazes, their grins matching.

“Pickled bard on starbord!”, jested Coen loudly, while already throwing a rope over the railing.

A few minutes later they had heaved Jaskier back on bord. 

While catching his breath, the musician's first thought went to his lute. When he was satisfied that the fine elven instrument had suffered no damage in it’s case, he breathed more easily. Then his anger was back in full swing. 

“What is WRONG with you guys? When you said midmorning I didn’t think that would imply nine o-fucking-clock! Have some mercy on people who actually enjoy their sleep! Gosh, my doublet is ruined.” 

He wound himself out of the dripping cloth, while simultaneously kicking his boots of his feet.

While Geralt leaned against the mainmast, his arms crossed and loooking utterly unimpressed, he couldn’t help but let his eyes drift over the man. He looked like a wet dream, his see threw shirt clinging to wide shoulders and slim hips, hair dripping, while little droplets of water searched their way down his neck and over his clavicle to end their journey in a nest of dark chest hair. As enticing as all that was, it still couldn’t compare to the sheepish smile and cornflower blue eyes that sparkled when Lambert halfheartedly gave him a dressing-down. Okay, he thought. Maybe he _did_ get Eskel's infatuation with him after all.

The bard was back on the ship.

He caught himself being relieved. 

Mostly for Eskels sake, Geralt thought. But no… that would be a bit of a lie. 

He didn’t want Jaskier to leave. He’d come to enjoy this menace who so easily brought joy and life to them. Who could lift his crew up with shenanigans and songs who were allegedly no shanties. Geralt wanted him to be a constant. 

Somehow the thought rattled him. 

He turned to get back to his duties, trying to shake the odd feeling from his mind, when he noticed how tenderly Eskel smiled at the troubadour, caught in Jaskiers existence like he was a siren’s song.

Something ugly raised it’s head in Geralts chest again, but while yesterday it had been hot and unforgiving, today it was bittersweet and longing. 

He pushed it deep down for he feared what he could find if he looked too close.

“I would have woken you, but - where have you even been? You were nowhere to be found.”

Eskel knew that he sounded a bit betrayed. Jaskier had the decency to look guilty.

“You remember that wedding Agloval mentioned? I couldn’t sleep so I wandered about and ended up there through happenstance. I sampled myself through the wine and sang some duetts with Little Eye, the bard. Very nice girl, that one, although her repertoire could use some new inspiration. Bickered like a fishwife, that girl. We sang and we drank and we sang a little more… and at one point we just passed out, I guess.” Jaskier smiled at the memory. If he’d had a sister, maybe it would have been like that.

Geralts rough voice cut through his musings.

“I have no patience with late-comers and unreliable crew. If you intent to join this crew, you better cut that out.”

“WHat do you mean, join? I already am a cabin boy, am I not?”, asked Jaskier, honestly puzzled. 

“As far as I know you never signed on. Your name is not in my logbook, so no, you are no official crew member.”

“So where is the book, then?”

Geralt looked at Jaskier in wonderment. He was treating this matter like it was no big deal. 

“Don’t you want to … think about that for a bit longer?”

A lopsided head. Forehead wrinkled and nose scrunched up in a thinking pose. 

Then a shrug and a brilliant smile. 

“Nah.”

When he signed _Jaskier_ \- no last name, affiliation, or affix - in his flowery script into the book, nobody asked questions. 

Jaskier, however, always curious, asked one himself. 

“Wait, if officially I hadn’t been a crew member, then I wasn’t obligated to any rules, right? You… You stole a months worth of shanty time from me, Geralt?! _Have you no shame?_ I demand reimbursement! Geralt, no, stop smirking you evil bastard! GERALT!-”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Anyone knowing the short story will recognize a lot here. I always hated ‘A little Sacrifice’. First time reading it made me cry. Rereading it just made me angry. As angry as the story of the other gal who fell in love with a leg user. Remember Arielle? That PYT with the lovely singing voice, the youngest of the seven daughters of king Tri- never mind. :)  
> I always wondered what happened to her and Erik after they sailed through the rainbow. Bet, marriage hit Arielle hard. What did you expect, love? Singing duetts while rowing over ponds all day?  
> I always preferred the H.C.Andersen original, anyway.
> 
> Don't be shy about leaving me essays, keysmashes, or emojis. Have a lovely day!


	5. You're welcome

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> \- in which a bard gets saved and saves in return -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello my lovely readers! How ya doin'?  
> Since the plague seems to be somewhat contained around here and my life will be back to a new normal soon, I wanted to inform you that I will probably not be able to keep the schedule up. Writing is something I do for enjoyment and I don't want to pressure myself with deadlines of my own making, just to deliver something I am not happy with. But fear not, all is drafted or outlined by now and I will try to present you with updates in a timely fashion.
> 
> This chapter is somewhat of an intermezzo before we start with Act 2. Here are the songs:  
> \- [Ship in a bottle by fin.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MkpoW0c9QxI&ab_channel=Tori%27sStory)  
> \- You're Welcome from Vaiana in the fashion of [Peter Hollens](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2aH6Q3BWmY8&ab_channel=PeterHollens) or the amazing [Dwayne Johnson](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=79DijItQXMM&ab_channel=DisneyMusicVEVO)

Jaskier was grumpy. And he thought that he was in his rights to be, too.

First, he had been downright delighted when Eskel had pushed him into his cabin to ‘warm him up again’, after his impromptu swim through Bremervoords harbor. Eskels kisses had been of a desperate variety, which had made Jaskier wonder what exactly had happened the night before. Eskel had answered with an unfathomable ‘all good’. 

Bullshit. 

Did he actually wallow in self-pity and drinking too much wine with Essi just to come back and realize that those two idiots obviously _haven’t_ really talked about their feelings for each other?

If anything, it was even worse now. Eskel and Geralt seemed to walk on tiptoes when around him or each other. When asking about something or giving an order, there were a lot of ‘please’s and ‘thank you’s involved. When Geralt had asked for Jaskier to inquire about some repair work, instead of his usual order, the bard was ready to hit someone. The cordiality was getting ridiculously obvious and even crew members had raised an eyebrow or two.

The sun was just setting and some storm clouds on the horizon dipped the Roach in an eerie palette of reds and violets. Some thunder rolled in the distance, reflecting Jaskiers mood just perfectly. He had just tried to let his frustrations out on some defenseless roots, but Vesemir had been not amused, disarming him from the knife in a quick skillful move, and removing him from his domain.  
So now he sat up in the crow’s nest, plucking away on his lute in a restless fashion. Echel had been more than happy to escape the boring watch duty and leave the bard alone in the lookout.

Jaskier couldn’t even discern why he was so frustrated and angry. Shouldn’t he be elated that Eskel and he still were a thing? But he couldn’t help and wonder if he was destroying the love story of a lifetime by coming between Eskel and Geralt like this. Should he have headed Lamberts words and not pursue his own selfish feelings and attraction for once?

Then again these two idiots were getting nowhere, apparently. Maybe Geralt would need somewhat of a push in the right direction. He looked down at the white-haired Witcher, who was standing at the wheel right now, his usual grumpy face in place. 

> Oh, captain, let's make a deal   
>  Where we both say the things that we both really feel   
>  I feel scared and I'm starting to sink   
>  And I only sink deeper the deeper I think

Jaskier didn’t really feel the raindrops falling, while mulling his thoughts over. His hands moved without thinking, plucking out a melody to the verses that kept coming to him.

The thing was, he really liked them. Both of them. 

Geralt might be a prickly porcupine most of the time, but Jaskier couldn't help but bestow him with affection. And even though it would hurt something fierce to step out of the thing he had with Eskel, it would be worth it to make them happy. Being Witchers, and at sea, at that, was hard enough as it is. They deserved better. Deserved everything. Each other. His own heart be damned. 

And Jaskier was used to heartbreak, really. The amounts he had fallen in and out of love by now had prepared him for this, surely. He would give Geralt a chance to make this right. But one way or another, he would make sure that lovely darling Eskel would get a happy ending. 

> Oh, captain, make up your mind   
>  Before the salt burns your eyes and you run out of time   
>  'cause you're popping the cork   
>  You get lost in your brain   
>  And you lose touch with all the things that made you feel sane

“JASKIER!”

Geralts voice pulled through his dark thoughts. 

“JASKIER! Get down before the storm hits us even harder! It’s dangerous up there!”

Only now did the bard notice the heavy drops of rain pour down on him, making his hair stick to his forehead. The thunder seemed to be right in his ear now and the sky looked like the world was coming to an end. 

Oh. 

He instantly stopped playing, looking down at his lute.

Fuck. He should have that under control by now. 

“JASKIER! DOWN NOW!”

“COMING!”

He shouldered his instrument and made his descend through the rigging, gripping the tows hard when the Roach was rocked to the side by a giant wave. The wind was whipping the rain into his face, making it hard to see where his feet were treading. He lost his footing on the slippery rope, hanging onto his grip for dear life. He looked down, trying to discern how much height was separating him from the deck below, but it was just too damn dark to see anything.

Before he could decide if he should just jump and hope for the best, the decision was made for him.

He felt strong arms encircling his legs, taking most of the weight that ripped at his arms.

Without hesitation, he trusted in the arms to catch him and let go. 

There was a short moment of vertigo, strong, big hands on his hips, his waist. When he felt himself standing, he wasn’t sure what filled him with more relief and the feeling of security: the floorboards of the deck under his feet or the broad chest he was pressed in.

_That’s nice,_ Jaskier thought. If it weren’t for the wind and the chill and the rain, he could stand like this forever, securely cuddled into Geralts arms and encased by his presence. 

“My hero,” he whispered in Geralts ear with heartfelt gratitude.

He felt Geralts body go rigid against him. The hands on him removed themselves quickly, as if the embrace had been something indecent.

“Let’s get under deck,” grumbled Geralt.

—————

  
The storm had drifted them off, in short distance to an isle that was too unimportant to be on any map. As long as the stars weren’t visible, Regis could only guess at their location. So they had set anchor at the little island to refill their water supply and maybe get their hands on some venison. 

Two smaller boats rowed ashore, some empty barrels and a lot of skeins in tow. Iorveth and Milva already had their bows taut, tag-teaming into the undergrowth to hunt for some fresh meat as soon as they landed.

Jaskier helped to unload, but quickly got distracted when he noticed a giant shell in the sand a few feet of. 

“Hello Oog,” the bard greeted the turtle, smiling to himself in fond memory.

The giant turtle slowly peaked out of its hiding place, and then obviously decided that the invaders were no thread. It slowly crawled its way back to sea, kicking up sand with its flippers in the process. He looked after it, mesmerized by the creature, until he heard someone shouting out for him, demanding to pull his weight.

When he turned around to return to work, he felt something under his boot and then heard a faint ‘crunch’. 

As he bent down to see what it was, he noticed white shells. He picked some up to examine them closer. Although they reminded him of chicken eggs, they were way softer and thinner. Bendy. A bit translucent in places. 

A surprised “Oh,” escaped his lips, when he realized that the turtle had been a Missus and they have stumbled upon her hatching ground. When he inspected the sand closer he could see the nests, older and new. Turtles always came back to the same beach where they had hatched themselves to lay their eggs, he remembered.

Imagine that. Swimming around in the wide ocean, but returning to a place they considered `home` without thought. Jaskier was once again awed with nature. 

“Jaskier!”

“Yes, yes! Coming!”

———

Everyone had gone of in a different direction in lieu of exploring the little island faster. Jaskier had stayed with Eskel and Zoltan, which he regrets already, for the two had decided to hike up a cliffy hill. His companions were nice enough to hack a way through the worst of the vegetation. When they reached the peak, the bard needed a moment to catch his breath. 

Underneath them there was a hidden bay, hard to see if you didn’t know how to navigate the rocky cliffside. From their vantage point, however, they could see something very odd. 

There was flotsam littering the bay, the driftwood belonging to at least three ships or more. A smaller schooner had rammed his fore into the side of another, ripping the ship wide open. A one-master was still in pretty good condition if a bit banged up and missing its sail.  
Eskel had seen a proper ship cemetery once, but this wasn’t one. The usual traces of a fight were missing. No canon ball shaped holes, singed tows or ripped deck planks. They looked … abandoned. Left behind. 

“Where do all these vessels come from, ya think?”, asked Zoltan intrigued. 

“The better question is, why are they here at all?”, wondered Eskel.

“Maybe it’s the currents. They drifted ‘ere, like us,” the dwarf speculated.

“All the way into the hidden bay? Never seen currents who navigate ships through rock formations.”

“Okay. Why didn’t they leave again, though?”

“Now that is finally a good question, Jaskier.”

———————

A bit later into noon they had found a little stream. Eskel had taken a first sip, for Witchers were used to drinking stuff that wasn’t really healthy for anyone else. But it was just water, no poison or drugs detected. They filled all the skeins and bottles they had on hand and circled back to the boats, where Milva and Iorveth were already waiting, a wild boar and some rabbits in tow, who had succumbed to their skillful archery. The rest of the expedition slowly trickled in and were sent out by Eskel to fill the barrels, when someone noticed Geralt still missing. 

“I’ll go,” offered Jaskier. “I can’t carry any of those barrels anyway with my puny little arms,” he commented dismayed when Eskel stemmed one of those heavy oak barrels up like it weighed nothing. He appreciated the view, though, hungry eyes wandering over flexing muscles.

“Will you be okay?”, the Witcher asked, a slight worry in his voice. 

“Of course. This island is tiny. What the hell can happen?”

As a bard he should have known better than to utter premonicious sentences like that. 

——————————

Jaskier had gone off in the direction he had seen Geralt go when they had landed. He had followed this direction, calling out for Geralt occasionally, until he came upon the decision to either climb up on a cliffy slope or follow the scenic route along the beach. Sick of yet another hike, the choice was easily made. 

He knew he was on the right track when he saw a pair of Geralt-sized footprints in the sand.

And then suddenly there were a lot more footprints.

Then some kicked up sand.

And then a set of at least four pair of prints with a grinding track in the middle, as if something heavy had been dragged. 

Well shit.

This was usually the moment where he hightailed the fuck out of a dicey situation and informed someone better equipped to deal with the problem. But this was Geralt and he was in a bit of panic here. Without thinking about it further, he followed the tracks quickly, hoping that whoever got the jump on the Witcher took their sweet time instead of doing something stabby instantly.

There. A cave.

Jaskier paused for a moment, trying to get his panicked, loud breathing under control. He had to be sneaky here. QUiet. Not one of his strong fortes, really.

He hid in the shadows as much as he was able to and slowly, oh so slowly, ventured into the cave with a crouch.

After following a bend, the cave opened up into something bigger, a dome of stone with a bonfire lit. He quickly hid himself, pressing as close to the cave wall as possible, hopefully obscured by darkness. 

He dared to peak around to get a grip of the situation. All the while his heart was hammering away in his chest. Incredibly loud, Jaskier thought. He hoped nobody but himself could hear it.

The first thing he noticed when he dared to take a look around the bend again was Geralt's white hair illuminated by the fire. He was alive and awake, thank the gods Podaga and Pereplut for that, bleeding from a head wound but fiercely wiggling to get out of the ropes wrapped around his legs and tying his arms to his torso. A thick tow was wrapped about his mouth, keeping him from doing anything but muffle in anger. 

The next thing Jaskier noticed were the five creatures sitting around the fire, installing something that looked a lot like a spit roast made out of … bones. 

And very human bones, by the look of it. Now that he noticed that gruesome little detail he couldn’t help but notice skulls and spines scattered about in the cave.

Fuck.

Of course. Of course, there would be fucking _cannibals_.

Could his life as a pirate be even more cliché?

Jaskier took stock of what he had on himself: His lute, of course. His holster holding his pistol with one shot and the dagger. Frantically he patted at the rest of his pockets, trying to come up with a plan.

Then he pulled the turtle eggshells from somewhere. He must have stuffed them into one of his pockets subconsciously. 

A plan was forming in his mind. 

————

This really wasn’t his day, thought Geralt, still frantically trying to loosen the ropes around him, while keeping an eye on his attackers.

They were human, although they looked outlandish and more like Drowners, their skin of a sickly bluish olive, wearing nothing but tattered loincloths and long beards, their hair shaggy, and nails long and pointed. They communicated with guttural sounds and clicking noises.

If Vesemir got wind that he got overpowered by a primitive bunch with bone clubs he would have a field day.

The Witcher was watching the construction of the spit angrily, his brain trying to come up with an escape plan.

All of their activities stilled, however, when there was drumming echoing through the cave.

The cannibals looked around, startled by the unfamiliar noise.

An earie breeze whistled through, making the fire roar up.

Then a lute started playing. 

Geralt closed his eyes, groaning into his gag when he realized what that was all about. Melitele give him strength.

Sure enough, the bard popped up in the cave entrance, sauntering in with a cocksure lazy swagger. “I see what's happening here,” he singsonged and starred every single one of his attackers down.

When his gaze caught Geralts, he realized why the cannibals were so startled at the arrival of the bard: Jaskiers usually cerulean blue eyes were all white. No pupils to be seen. Paired with his head held high, the posture of a king and a performer's smile, all-knowing and cheeky, he seemed unearthly. 

> You're face to face with greatness, and it's strange   
>  You don't even know how you feel   
>  It's adorable   
>  Well, it's nice to see that humans never change 

While Jaskier wandered deeper into the cave, with a self confidence that made him seem untouchable, the cannibals were pointing at him, crying something or another, while huddling closer together. His clear voice echoed from the cave walls, giving his sing-song more volume and vibe and somehow making Jaskier seem bigger. His presence seemed to fill every nook, rising up, up, and higher, to the domed ceiling and beyond. 

> Open your eyes, let's begin   
>  Yes, it's really me, breathe it in   
>  I know it's a lot, the hair, the bod   
>  When you're staring at a demi-god

The bard neared the group, slowly rounding the bonfire, while the cannibals were so out of their depths and instilled with fear that they always tried to keep the fire between them and the unnerving creature with the white eyes, who produced strange noise from a wooden box. Jaskiers smirk grew, obviously pleased that his ploy worked. He was only a few steps away from Geralt now. 

It was odd, but the Witcher could have sworn that the humidity in the cave had risen. A few drops of sweat slid down his forehead, while it got a bit harder to breathe.

> What can I say except you're welcome   
>  For the clouds, the rain, clear sky   
>  Hey, it's okay, it's okay   
>  You're welcome   
>  I'm just an ordinary demi-guy 

Jaskier stood in front of him now and he yanked the lute neck in a deep swiping motion. The breeze in the cave puffed up to a short wind, making the fire spike up high, creating a shock flame. The cannibals screamed in agitation. The few seconds they were distracted, Jaskiers hand had gone to his dagger in his holster and dropped it in Geralt's right. He positioned himself in a wide stance, obstructing their view on the Witcher. 

Clever. 

Geralt flipped the blade and started sawing and cutting. 

> When the nights get cold   
>  Who fires some thunders from the sky   
>  You're lookin' at the guy   
>  Oh, also I summon the sun - you're welcome,  
>  To stretch the days and bring you fun   
>  Also, I harness the breeze   
>  To fill your sails and shake your trees

The cannibals had calmed down a bit, watching in wide-eyed wonder about what the God - for he must be, as his eyes were all-seeing, his hide of strange color and his voice filled with the power of thunder - would do next. Two of the creatures were down on their knees, praying. If they prayed for mercy or for Jaskier to choose them as his holy sacrifice was unclear. 

“Running out of rhymes and tricks here, Geralt”, mumbled the bard through his fake smile.

“Patience is a virtue,” grumbled the Captain, finally free of most of the rope, hacking away at the ones still immobilizing his legs. Jaskier started moving his legs in a complicated pattern, trying to keep the bearded savages focused on him. 

> And the lute right here in my hand  
>  Helps with some magic you won’t understand  
>  Hear what I play, I make everything happen   
>  Listen to this humble bard just tippity tappin' 

The odd step dance Jaskier performed had the five so mesmerized, that they were too distracted to notice that Jaskier had drawn his pistol, hiding it behind his back. When he heard the last of the rope finally snap and noticed the motion of Geralt scrambling to his feet, the bard shouted “RUN!” and half a second later, shot the pistol heavenwards. The resounding loud boom was echoed in multiplex as if thunder had just ripped through the cave ceiling.

The cannibals were too confused to realize what happened, some of them cowering, others covering their ears. Neither Jaskier nor Geralt noticed this, however, while they hightailed out of there as fast as their feet allowed. 

They only slowed down a bit when they had made their way back to the boats, where Eskel and the rest were agitatedly waiting.

Eskel twitched back in fearful shock. “Jaskier, your eyes! What-?”

“Oh yeah, let me-” And with shaky fingers, still high from adrenaline, the bard pulled his lids apart and carefully pulled the white egg membrane from one of his eyes. He blinked a few times. “These burned like hell.”

Jaskier fumbled around with his other eye, while Geralt already bellowed out orders, gently shoving Eskels hand away that had checked for his head wound. 

“Iorveth, lend me your saber. Zoltan, with me. As soon as I cut some heads off we are going to blast a cave in.”

“Geralt, no! Let’s get the hell off this island and leave them be, they were just… hungry.” Jaskier had to wince at the implications. 

“So that they can take a bite from the next unsuspecting visitor? I don’t think so.”

“Geralt, please. Cannibalism is totally normal with some animals. Accepted in some obscure human cultures, too. Yes, it’s gross and revolting, but who are we to claim that we have the moral high ground here? You’ve seen them, Geralt. It’s just the five and they didn’t exactly look healthy, either. Just … leave it be. Don’t make this horrible day end in bloodshed and their deaths weighing on your concience.”

“My concience is fine,” spat Geralt.

“Is it, though?”

Jaskier looked downright miserable. His eyes red from irritation, the usually so steady hands shaking from adrenaline, but he still had the fight in him to question Geralt's actions. His eyes were pleading but his mouth was tight in stubborn displeasure. 

The bard had probably just saved his life, no matter how unconventional the rescue might have been. He should have run, the stupid fool. Getting to safety would have been the better, more reasonable option. Instead, the guy that couldn’t even lift a sword properly had the balls to walk into danger without hesitation - for a _Witcher_ no less - with nothing but a one shot pistol and a butter knife. 

Geralt felt some new found respect rising in his chest.

“To the boats,” he conceded. 

Geralt had to look away from Jaskiers small grateful smile, cerulean eyes all soft and warm and thankful.

There was that warm fluttering in his gut again.

Probably just digestion. 

\--

When they were safely back on the Roach and Jaskiers nerves had calmed down somewhat, Jaskiers face transformed into a very wobbly smile that was too artificial to be real.

“Lovely adventure. I’ve never met cannibals before! How riveting. I can’t remember how last I felt so alive.”

Some of the crew members looked at him as if he lost his mind. 

“Now if you’ll excuse me? I think I need to lie down for a bit.”

And with these words he swayed on his feet, the day's events catching up on him and his body succumbing to exhaustion. Eskel and Geralt reacted quickly, catching him under his arms to keep him from hitting the floor as he fainted.

“You’ve got a hell of a story to tell, I gather,” remarked Eskel in curiosity.

Geralt remembered the details from their little adventure then. The odd humidity, the unnatural wind, the cryptic lyrics.

“Yeah, about that…” Geralt's eyes went small with suspicion and curiosity. “I want Yen to check him out when we reach Attre. ‘Just a humble bard’ my ass.”


	6. Attre

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> \- in which the reader gets the obligatory bathing scene, a bard is in his element and a sorceress helps to get the plot along -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW for semipublic smut and mentions of prostitution.
> 
> This chapters music mostly comes from the four lovely dames that are the Misbehavin’ Maidens:  Twiddles, London Town, Strike the Belle , Grannys Advice, German Clockwinder and  I’ll drink to that!  
> At the start there is also a short reference to G.R.R. Martins Game of Thrones’ Hands of Gold, in the novels made by a fictional singer named Symon Silver Tongue, in the series set to music by Ed Sheeran. If you would like to listen to the extended version try this one.

“So, Attre,” remarked Jaskier, when he joined the mixed group of witchers and dwarves lounging about on the port side main deck. A bottle of something was going around. When Jaskier took a sip and the stuff burned down his throat he wheezed in surprise, his eyes going wet with the bite of the alcohol. 

“Merlins beard, you can remove paint with this plonk. What is that?”

“Dwarven vodka. Will put hair on your baby face,” teased Caleb.

“Excuse me? Unlike you I actually shave,” he defended himself while trying to stifle his coughs. 

“Anyway. Attre. This is somewhat of a homeport for you, or so I heard? Gather you know your way around the place. How can a man of good taste make the best of his time there? How are you all using your percentile of the prize?”

“I’ll take my meager coin to make it into a small fortune with Gwent,” replied Zoltan, very convinced of himself and his knack for cards.

The group groaned. 

“When did that ever work out for you? Haven’t you learned by now?”, reprimanded Caleb. “Just do as we do and use it on something nice ‘n pretty.”

“What, like… jew'lry or something?”

“Like lovely company for a night!”, exclaimed Lambert. His eyes went a bit dreamy. “I’m gonna take Keira out on a date.”

“Ah yes… _for hands of gold are always cold but a woman's hands are warm_ , right?”, singsonged Jaskier with a meek little smile. “And what about our first and second in command?”

“A whore house.”

Jaskier had to blink at Eskels arid answer. Not that he minded his lovely Witcher getting his hands on some lovely breasts. He had never been jealous in his life and wouldn’t start now. But Eskel hadn’t made the impression of an unsatisfied lover either. But now that he thought about it - he hadn’t been in a bordello for ages and the thoughts of his last visits in the Passiflora brightened his smile.

“You know what? That sounds great, actually. I’ll come with you.” His smile was downright lewd now. “I’m probably one of the very few lads who go out of a cathouse owning more coin than before entering.”

Lambert raised an eyebrow, Geralts face darkened at the thought of the bard selling his body like that, while Eskels brain dropped out, his imagination coming up with debauched looking hair, smeared lipstick, and Jaskiers legs in lace stockings.

“The visit to the Unicorn is business only,” clarified Geralt.

Lambert snorted. Geralt answered him with a heated look, daring him to say something that deserved a good punch.

“We need to see the owner. She is a sorceress and we hope to get a location spell for that seal coat,” Eskel explained to the bard. 

“A sorceress owning a brothel?”, wondered the minstrel. “Aren’t they usually advisors for kings or something?”

“Yennefer decided some years ago that politics were tiresome. But she still likes to meddle. There are certain places where men think they can talk without being overheard: a tavern, a bathhouse and a brothel. She owns all of them. A few tenements, too. And her spies are everywhere. She basically rules over half the city by now. The fact that Attre is overrun with nilfgaardians but is also a vassal to Cintra is a big plus, too. She can pretend to be neutral while playing her own power game.”

Jaskier let the bottle pass him by while processing the new information. Then his eyes went wide with joy.

“Did you just say _bathhouse_?”

Eskel smiled indulgently. Of course that would be the thing he’d pick up on. Jaskier looked dreamy, obviously fantasizing about the luxury of hot water. There was a faraway smile on his face while his big blue eyes stared into nothingness.

Eskel couldn’t help himself but grab Jaskier by the shirt and press a soft kiss upon his cheek. 

Jaskier blinked, pulled out from his steamy tub dream, then smiled sweetly. “What was that for?”

Eskel just shrugged, reflecting his smile back at him. 

It was a revelation how easy it was to just touch Jaskier. Since the minstrel was always physically affectionate with him - and everyone else for that matter -, providing hugs and shoulder bumps, Eskel didn’t really have to think about being shy with him. Jaskier touched him at every opportunity, so Eskel reciprocating was appreciated. His caring caressing accepted. The occasional spontaneous kiss welcomed. When he had a hard day, he just leaned into Jaskier, let his hand rest at the low of his back, or search out another hand to hold. It was addicting and he didn’t give a rats ass of the crew noticing.

Even Lambert right now, commenting with childish ‘ewws’ and ‘get a room’ couldn’t dampen down the warm feeling in his chest.

“Oh hoho, are you offering, Lambert? You can sleep in my hammock with the rest of the crew while Eskel and I enjoy the night in the mates cabin. Watch out for Munro to your left, though. He likes to fart in his sleep.”

The dwarf retaliated with some very rude gestures and creative insults. The evening progressed like that, drinking and bantering.

Geralt surveyed the company. This was nice, he thought while taking another sip from the spirit. He wondered what would have been, had he not chosen to keep the Roach. Maybe he would still wander the Continent, all alone on the path. Something heavy lifted away from his heart as if it had carried the whole world before. 

——————————

They arrived in Attre in the early morning hours. It took them another hour or so to anker their boat where the harbor master wanted them. He was thoroughly bribed and knew the Roach and their crew. The short man positioned them expertly between two bigger ships, hiding the Roach from curious eyes.

When they finally disembarked, Jaskier noticed three beautiful women on the rampart, all very different except for the fact that they oozed power and confidence.

With a big box of loot on his shoulder, he was nearly run over by Ciri, who sprinted down the dock and up the wooden stairs, squealing when she was hugged and lifted by the black-haired woman of the three. The olive-skinned brunette with lovely long curls joined into the hug, greeting the girl with equal enthusiasm, while the blonde with the very revealing cleavage stood offside, looking down the harbor as if in search of someone.

The ‘someone’ turned out to be Lambert, who promptly dropped his end of a big chest, leaving the cursing Coen alone in his plight. The Witcher hastened along the dock, running a hand through his hair and checking for bad breath. The bard witnessed Lambert being pulled away like a besotted puppy by the blonde.

Jaskier made a mental note to make fun of him, the next time he teased Eskel for being affectionate. 

Then he noticed Geralt up there, too, talking to the two remaining women still dotting on Ciri. The crate in his arms was getting heavy so he stopped trying to discern what was discussed and got back to his chores.

————————

It took a few hours to unload. Eskel and Regis were a good team when it came to negotiating. The fence was a squat man with intelligent eyes and an impeccably coiffed goatee. He was a ruthless tradesman with good manners and while he had a healthy respect for the towering witcher, he still fiercely haggled with Regis about the price of their pillaged goods.

It was about midday when they finally had everything in order, a hand full of the crew staying on the Roach while the rest enjoyed their shore leave. Geralt collected Eskel and Jaskier. Together they made their way into the inner city of Attre. 

“Where to first, my lovely Witchers?”, the bard asked and hooked himself in Geralt's and Eskel's left and right arm respectively, like a lady meandering through a park with her beau.

Geralt had been relieved when the bard had invited himself along. He had no idea how else he should have convinced him to come to the _Unicorn_ so Yen could have an inconspicuous look at him.

“Bathhouse first. Yen hates it when we stink up her place. And she is spoiling Ciri for the next few hours anyway.”

He was hyper-aware of Jaskiers hand touching his arm. He tried to ignore the lingering warmth. 

When they entered the public bathhouse, they were asked to wash before entering the actual communal baths. After undressing, the three of them were led into a tiled chamber, a pool of water made up of mosaics half embedded in the floor. The water was milky from the use of soap and pleasantly warm, steam rising and making the air heavy and damp.

Jaskier wondered how that worked - if it was a heating mechanism underground or maybe a witch's charm.

There were some basic soaps and towels around, some candles that were unlit this time of day and a privacy screen shoved into a corner, hiding a big looking glass, a stool and some shaving gear from view.

While the two Witchers practically jumped into the warm pool, eager to rid themselves of dirt and grease, Jaskier carefully stepped into the tub. The water sloshed as he lowered himself in, his muscles vibrating in joy at the sensation. He wriggled his toes and fingers in delight, breathing in the soapy scent and steam. 

It was paradise. He’d dearly missed a luxury like this. 

He was interrupted by his daze, when Geralt arose from his dip under the water, immersing his head and wetting his hair. He grabbed for a random bar of soap and started scrubbing away on his scalp like on a particularly crusty pan.

“No no _no_ , what are you doing? Stop that!”

Before Geralt had realized what was happening, the soap had been taken from him and Jaskier was in his space, a mere few inches from his back. Soft hands carded through his long hair, untangling the mess on his crown.

The Witcher was stupefied, muscles drawn tight like a bowstring. Didn’t that bard have any sense of personal space? 

He heard Jaskier picking up a different bar of soap and working up a lather in his hands while belittling his hair care. And then the hands were on his head, starting at the nape of his neck, slowly working upwards in small circular motions. The pressure on his scalp gentle. 

Geralt's mind got misty like the air around them when nimble fingers worked themselves up into his crown, the circles wide and slow, short nails occasionally scratching. Geralt felt his eyes close involuntary while he let the ministrations wash over him, the subtle scent of thyme and sage flooding his nostrils.

It felt _so good_. 

Even though his first instincts should have been to turn around and scratch Jaskiers eyes out, he couldn’t help but succumb to this act of innocent kindness. Had Jaskier known that he starved for touch? Did he read him as easily as he obviously had read the rest of his crew?

Jaskiers hands slid down to rub his neck, chasing away the tension, massaging the knots to purge away the stress. His shoulders dropped like a drawbridge. Geralt grunted to himself. He couldn’t remember the last time he was this relaxed. He felt spoiled beyond measure, a luxury infused into him he couldn’t remember ever experiencing before.

Jaskier continued to work in silence, his fingers now on Geralts temples and moving them in soft circles with just the right amount of pressure. The Witcher felt his frown slip away, a tension released he didn’t even know he was sporting. 

How was it possible for Jaskier to know his body like that? 

He felt played like a lute when another small grown escaped his throat. 

The fingers spread wider now, rubbing firmly beneath Geralts jaw, thumbs pressing gently into spots behind his ears. Geralt raised his head subconsciously for the hands to have better access and his half-lidded gaze landed on Eskel. 

His mind slipped out of his oversensitive haze when he noticed the way Eskel _looked_ at him. At them. He expected some kind of jealousy there, maybe aversion or anger. He knew about the bond that had started to grow between Eskel and the bard. But the sight before him was peculiar: Eskel looked at them as if… as if…

He didn’t really want to interrupt the softness shown to him, but he twisted around to look at Jaskier anyway. The bards fringe was damp from the steam and stuck to his forehead, but the curling bangs still couldn’t hide the fondness in those expressive blue orbs. The warmth and affection. 

The intensity tore at something in the Witchers heart.

“You look at me like you look at Eskel.” His gravelly voice was quiet but seemed to echo loud in the tiled room.

Jaskier pressed closer into him, his mouth only inches away from Geralts left ear. His breath tingled on his cheek, bringing a sensuality to the situation Geralt hadn’t felt before.

“Like Eskel always looks at you, you mean?” Jaskier whispered. His eyes flickered down to Geralts lips and then slowly, like dealing with a skittish animal, he pressed a chaste kiss unto them. 

Geralt's lips fell open in surprise. Eskel was _right there, and..._ watched them with interest?

Jaskier took advantage of this, softly nibbling at his lower lip and pressing the barest hint of tongue into his mouth. Before he could react in any way, Jaskier had already drawn away, a small cheeky smile placed on his face.

“You’re a clever man, Captain. You’ll figure it out.”

Then the body heat was gone and there was the sound of water splashing as Jaskier closed the distance to Eskel. He shamelessly pressed himself to his front, arms around Eskels neck. 

“Your turn, my pretty Witcher. Need help washing that strong, broad back of yours?”, the minstrel asked huskily. The other man put his big hands along his jaw and pulled him into a hungry kiss. Pliant and willing, Jaskiers lips fell open in a delighted whine. 

Geralt just looked at them. Overwhelmed. Considering. 

He dunked his head under water, the world muffled for a moment, helping him think.

Putting the complicated puzzle that was Jaskier aside for now, he realized one fundamental truth: after all this time, Eskel still… He had never stopped…? 

Was Eskels love something, that could have been his all the time? Had he been too caught up in his own shit to notice?

Geralt excused himself, mumbling about the hot pools, grabbed a towel and fled the washing area.

When Eskel and Jaskier broke apart, the Witcher rose an eyebrow, questioning Jaskiers boldness. 

“I think you broke him.”

“Good. Maybe he’ll reorganize some parts in that thick brain of his when he reassembles himself.”

Eskel snorted, disbelieving, then dropped his hands lower, over the bard's body, enjoying the contours of his lithe muscles, the texture of his chest hair, the slimness of his hips.

“You really mean that, do you? The three of us like … that.”

“Yes, of course. If he actually wants me, that is. But yeah, I think it would make all of us happier for it. I’ve been in more scandalizing situations.”

They enjoy the silence for a bit, while Eskel let Jaskier free roam over his washing. Warm water sluiced over his hair when he confessed, “I do love him.”

  
“I know.”

“… and you really wouldn’t mind? Me and him?”

“Oh honey, no. Au contraire. Love is a very complicated, but easy thing and has as many faces as the sky has colors. It’s different with every person you’re with. I am just grateful that you share a part of that with me.”

Strong lute callused fingers worked their way over his scalp, massaging some kind of oil in. 

“You know a lot about that. Love, I mean.”

Jaskiers laugh was nice. A light sound, as easy and bright as the bard himself.

“Well, I _am_ a bard. And I know a bit about the world and what I’ve seen of it so far. My own experiences to draw from. I’ve loved so many and always fall so fast. I couldn’t promise to never love anybody else and I would never expect that promise from someone else either. I just can ask of you to be honest about what you want. What you feel. As I would extend the same courtesy. I wouldn’t just… leave without a word.”

Eskel looked up at him, feeling caught.

“Yeah, I noticed your overly desperate hands after my little swim in the Bremervoord harbor. Did you really think I would just…” He made a throwing hand gesture.

Eskel closed his eyes in shame. “I went after Geralt instead of staying with you. That was selfish and unfair. I thought you didn’t want to bother with my shit anymore.”

“Nonsense,” Jaskier murmured, combing his fingers through the Witchers short hair. “You are so wonderful, Eskel. Everything about you is a marvel. I would never leave you without telling you why. You deserve that. And so much more.” His hands had wandered from his strands to his neck, their faces close together. Their noses touched. Then also did their foreheads, in an imitation of the gesture he usually shared with Geralt. 

“I’m glad you went after him. I thought about it, you know. About what was going on between you that night. If you would scream at each other for a bit and then heatedly kissing to shut the other one up. Or all awkward love confessions and stealing shy glances and touches. Gosh, it would be so lovely to be between you two.” Jaskiers voice is husky, his breath brushing his ear. He licked and nipped at Eskels ear softly with a hint of teeth. 

“Such a good fit. Imagine what we could do together. What you two could do to me. We to you.”

Eskels eyes, already closed, didn’t need much imagining to actually see it. Jaskiers hands, so gentle on him. What a lovely contrast Geralts bigger figure would be. The soft form of the bard between two pairs of hard, broad shoulders. Geralts long white hair on Jaskiers sunkissed skin.

As Jaskiers fingers wandered down his abdomen, then slowly stroking his shaft under the water, Eskel moaned deeply, as the fantasy provided him with Geralt kissing down Jaskiers jaw. The both of them exchanging a deep kiss. 

As if Jaskier had read his mind, his soft plush lips are on him, licking into his mouth with that wicked tongue.  
One of his hands reached up, on the bards nape, keeping him in kissing distance, the other digging into the meat of his arse. Just a few strokes of Jaskiers talented hands touching him just right, and he is already so close, aching for release.

Between kisses, Jaskier murmured into his ear, part naughty, part loving praises. 

“So beautiful and strong. Would spoil you rotten. We would be glorious, my pretty witcher. The things we could do to you, dear heart.”

Floating on the feel and sound of Jaskier, on the whispered promises, he was quickly pushed over the edge. He pressed the bard to himself as close as possible, while the pleasure consumed him, making him shake and gasp.

After that, Eskel needed a moment to get himself back together, breathing deeply, when their intimate moment was interrupted by an indignant clearing of a throat.

A stout, bald man clothed in nothing but a tiny off-white towel gave them an unimpressed raised eyebrow.

“This’s a public bathroom, ye know? Cathouse is two streets over, sons. Take your business there.”

“Oh, we intend to,” retorted Jaskier unashamed and winked at the guy, then pulled Eskel out of the pool with him to get into the actual bathing area, giggling all the way. 

They indulged in the luxuries of the main baths for another hour or two. While the Witchers soaked away in the hottest pool they could find, Jaskier was more drawn to the steamy parts where an older boy of maybe fourteen years of age was drizzling ladles of aromatic water over hot stones in regular intervals. He chatted with two old women about everything and nothing while thoroughly enjoying the humid steam opening up his lungs.

Thank Daschbog for small luxuries like this. Being a pirate sure sucked in the spa department. 

\---------

Freshly washed and feeling clean for the first time in months, Jaskier happily babbled away when they made it to the bordello. Jaskier looked up to the sign depicting a white horse with a flowy mane and a spiraling horn on his forehead.

“Oooh, that’s kind of clever, isn’t it? Because of unicorns implying virginity and purity. Highly desirable, but difficult to obtain. I appreciate the irony.”

Geralt contained a snort. “Yes. That’s exactly what that name is about,” he deadpanned, trying not to think about the wretched thing still lurking about in Yen’s private rooms.

Upon entering the whorehouse they came into a high main room, full of small desks and mismatched chairs and stools. Besides a long bar stretching over half a wall, a narrow stairway led up to the galleries, and the private rooms. The floozies and catamites lounged about, waiting for the customers to make their choice, who were oggling up the wares and drinking. Some of the patrons eyed the Witchers warily, but the fils and filles de joie didn’t even bat an eye. Costumers were costumers in Yens establishment, no matter if dwarf, doppler, Witcher, elf, gnome or otherwise.

The afore-said woman stood on the upmost gallery, her beauty outshining all of the pretty people below. Dressed in a frilly white blouson and a high-waisted black pleated skirt billowing around her, she looked like a woman who meant business. She gestured for them to join her up on the balcony with a small nick of the head.

Geralt and Eskel did their first steps onto the old wooden stairs but froze when a voice very well known to them by now bellowed out in song. 

> Oh you hear a lot of stories 'bout the sailors and their sport   
> About how every sailor has a girl in every port   
> But if you added two and two you'd figure out right quick   
> It's just because the girls all have a lad on every ship   
> And it's twiddle ee ai dee ai dee ai, twiddle ee ai dee ei   
> It's often times a man will leave you broken with dismay   
> And it's twiddle ee ai dee ai dee ai twiddle ee ai dee ei   
> There's other things to twiddle when the men have sailed away

Jaskier, performer all the way, was already making his way between the many little desks. The pirates stood there, impressed and puzzled about how quick their bard had the whole establishment already in his thrall. The dames played along, lifted their skirts to their ankles or knees, making eyes at each other and winking at their costumers, while some lads tapped along to the beat, laughing at the lewd lyrics. They, as well as the other patrons, found themself captured by the casual way the bard seemed to just pull everyone into his orbit. A smile, a wink, an easy laugh, and you got whipped away in Jaskiers presence. A cyclone of good mood.

When Geralt looked up at the sorceress, she had one of her eyebrows lifted in disbelieving surprise. But since she didn’t otherwise interfere, she probably didn’t mind the impromptu entertainment.

> So next time you're with a lady and she takes you to her bed   
> Be sure to please her well, and remember what I've said   
> For if you do not treat her right then know that this is true   
> The ladies all can have their fun without involving you

“When I said that your merry band of outcasts might as well start up a circus, I haven’t thought you would take the idea seriously,” jested Yennefer, when the two pirates joined her on the balustrade. Geralt kissed her cheek in greeting, so he wouldn’t smear her red lip color.

Eskel nodded respectfully.

“Want me to make him stop?”, asked Geralt. 

Yennefer glanced down, watching the man engaging her clientele in merry songs and encouraging them to sing and dance along. Her boys and ladies didn’t seem to mind the odd musician, laughing at the salacious lyrics and playing out the stories he spun in rhyme. The ruckus seemed to draw new customers in who were curious to see what the noise was all about. Her barkeep was diligently drawing beer as if it was water on a hot day.

“No. Let your stray have his fun. Now…” she sat down in a high-backed chair in front of a desk that overlooked her dominion. Geralt sat down on a polstered setée. Eskel kept standing, leaning against the balustrade and keeping an eye on Jaskier.

Yennefer had several papers in front of her, a few of them looking very old and brittle. 

“Triss and I were able to come up with some possible locations of seal coats. We know of three. One of them is rumored to belong to a czar in Ofrit. We doubt he will be willing to part with it, for he is one of those paraphernalia collectors who pay horrendous sums of florens at auctions to get some obscure knick-knacks.”

“Yeah, no, Agloval is too fond of his money to part with it. He would rather force Sh’eenaz into a pool than paying a higher sum,” said Geralt. 

“Your employers are as questionable as always.”

“I can’t exactly take my pick.”

They looked up at the small commotion at the end of the balustrade, where a gangly man and his chosen company for the night stumbled up the stairs. Tipsy from beer and music, he made quite a spectacle of himself, the harlot giggling and pushing him into the right room and closing the door loudly behind him. From down below came applause and howling, as Jaskier ended one song. The musician instantly started on the next. 

> I used to work in Novigrad, in a merchant store   
> I thought I did a pretty good job, but I don't work there anymore.  
> A pirate came in for some treasure one day   
> I asked him what kind he preferred   
> "Booty!" he said. So booty he got   
> And now I don't work there anymore

The men and dames roared with laughter, while Jaskier shook his behind suggestively. The _Unicorn_ was packed by now, every seat taken and some dames making do with a suitors lap.

“What about the other two?”, rumbled the Captain. 

“There is one down south, over the nilfgaardian border." On a map on the continent, she pointed out a small town near Liddertal, deep in enemy territory. 

"The last - and this one will probably be your best option - is somewhere around Skellige. We have tried to pin down the exact location, but it’s probably hidden by some obscure spell.”

Yennefer pulled up a detailed map of the Skellige islands and showed him the penciled-off area. It encircled the southern parts of Ard Skellig, nearly all of Faroe and a lot of the small southern islands. And then there was all the water in between, of course. With Geralts luck, the seal coat probably lay deep down on the seabed, unreachable and lost to everyone but the crabs and fishes.

“Fuck.”

His options were limited here. He had absolutely no intentions to cross with the Nilfgaardians. That strange collector was their safest bet. Maybe he should inform Agloval about his options and let him decide about the next step. Then again, the douchebag would probably not pay one penny and send some dubious ‘relic hunters’ on the job - the ones willing to steal and blow up a safe.

“Okay then. Let’s try Skellige first, see if Ermion may know about some lore that can help us limit this down,” Geralt stated in frustration while encompassing the big spot of the card with his index finger. “Ciri is supposed to return to her uncle anyway. Speaking of, where is the little goblin?”

“She’s with Triss,” answered Yen, while watching the going-ons below with detached interest. “She has more patience than me when it comes to showing Ciri how to control her chaos. I also don’t like her in the _Unicorn_. Last time she was in here, she stabbed a customer. I’m very proud of her protecting my girls, but her hot-headedness is bad for business.”

Another round of applause surged through the crowd, most of the wenches and hustlers already in a private room to do business while a selected few stood on the stairs or served drinks, flirting outragingly, to keep the customers hot and bothered while they waited for their turn. 

> Down on the quarterdeck and walkin’ about   
> There is a second mate so steady and so stout   
> Dreamin’ of his Madame Rouge, the girl he loves so well   
> And wishin’ he could go ashore and strike, strike the bell   
> Strike the bell, second mate, and let us go below   
> If you play your cards right, you’ll leave us all aglow   
> You haven’t done yer duty ‘till you’ve made a maiden yell   
> We wish that you would hurry up and strike, strike the bell!

Jaskiers repertoire of dirty songs was endless, it seemed. He was obviously having the time of his life, making the serving wenches dance and getting the occasional smooch from them. His shirt was indecently unlaced by now, showing off his fine chest. A smeared lipstick kiss graced one of his cheeks. He looked downright debauched himself. 

“What do you want for the bard?”, Yennefer asked more or less jokingly. 

“No,” came the insistant refusal from the Witchers simultaniously. 

Yennefer looked at them both in mild surprise, then the corners of her mouth pulled into a small intrigued smile. 

“Interesting.”

“Lambert likes him”, remarked Geralt, trying to explain his insistent answer away. “He’s still an asshole, but he’s been less of a wild card in the last weeks. The bard keeps him entertained.”

Yennefer kept her biting remark about other kinds of entertainment to herself. 

“There is something about him, I can’t put my finger on it. Has he been studying in Ban Ard?”

Eskel and Geralt exchanged a look. 

“Not that we know of. For a guy who loves to talk we know very little about him. But he… can do stuff, we think. There had been some odd happenstances.”

Yennefer looked intrigued now, her eyes piercing at Jaskier. Discerning. Investigative.

“There is Chaos about him. But not like me, not like I know it. More… flowing.” Her violet eyes went a bit glassy as if thinking far away thoughts. Then her mouthed opened in a small ‘o’, the most expressive show of surprise she allowed herself, before forming a small secretive smile.

“You did the thought thing, didn’t you?”, asked Geralt, intrigued.

“Yes.”

“And?”

“And nothing. The ‘thought thing’, as you put it, can be quite handy, but I am usually not one to reveal secrets that are not mine to tell. He’s no danger to Ciri, you or your crew, of that I can assure you. Well,…” she looked at the both of them inquiringly, far too knowing all of a sudden. “Considering you are both insensitive idiots, traveling on a brittle pile of wood in the open sea, maybe I would advise you not to piss him off too much.”

Now that wasn’t ominous at all.

They looked down at the bard who was none the wiser about Yennefers intrusion in his privacy. 

> Now cleanin’ was a chore that seemed to always take all day   
> I rushed to finish up the job and rub the dust away   
> While wiping down some bottles, my Granny gave a sigh,   
> Said, “If you stroke your man like that, you’ll get it in your eye."

“Now if you would excuse us, Eskel. The bard gave me some ideas,” she said while standing and demandingly tugging Geralt up by the lapels of his shirt. Geralt came along willingly, his golden eyes glued on violet.   
“Tell Pietro, drinks for you and the bard are on the house,” she said, while slowly back-walking Geralt to her rooms. 

> To say I was a chatterbox would only be too kind   
> The talkin’ caused my loves to run and leave me far behind,   
> But Granny told me, “Dearest kid, they find you such a bore,   
> Cuz talkin’ isn’t what you should be usin’ your mouth for.”

Eskel sighed deeply, his own trousers way too tight for quite a while now with all the different smells of desire heavily floating through the place. He still felt the ghost of Jaskiers wet hands upon him, mapping out his body while whispering sweet nothings into his ear. He thought about sneaking off into one of the darker alcoves for a bit to take care of his need but decided against it. Watching the bard in his element seemed way more enticing than doing anything adventurous below the belt. He grabbed the relevant maps of Yennefers desk and headed for the bar.

———————

About an hour or so later, Yennefer stretched her naked body in her bed, satisfied for now. 

Geralt watched her sinful movements, absentmindedly combing some sweaty hair from his forehead. She looked beautiful like this, all soft curves and glistening skin, in total contrast to her sharp mind and dark thoughts. 

“Your thoughts are awfully loud today.”

“Keep out of my head.”

“I would if you wouldn’t be projecting so noisily.”

These were the worst and best parts of being with Yennefer. He didn’t have to form words to get something complicated across. She would listen in and get what he meant. What he was incapable to form into words.

“You should stop being so wrapped up in feeling guilty.”

Geralt looked at her sharply, resenting her for destroying this rare moment with her.

“Just because you love me doesn’t mean you are not allowed to love another. We don’t even know if this is love, after all, or just a twisted thing. And while I know that I did some horrible things to you because of my ... possessive nature, I think after over a decade of this spiel between us, and you being at sea all the time… it’s just stupid to deny yourself.”

Geralt groaned, as if in pain, and maybe he was. All these thoughts inside his head were making him dizzy. He just wanted to enjoy his afterglow instead of thinking about feelings and stuff. 

Yennefer tugged herself under Geralt's chin, her perfect breasts pushing into his body. One hand of hers played with his chest hair, long fingers tracing the outline of his pecs. 

Geralt buried his nose into her black hair, inhaling her unique but familiar scent of lilacs and gooseberries. Would he lose this, if he rekindled this unspoken … _something_ with Eskel?

“We had never been perfect together to begin with, Geralt. When we meet, we burn, and after a while something comes crashing down on us. This band between us will not break just because you make some more room for other people in your life. You will just… grow a bit. Broaden your emotional horizon. It might do us both some good.” 

Even if Geralt would allow this _growth_ to happen. He was still unsure if Eskel would even be willing to open that door again, despite that look that had rattled him to the bones. And now that Eskel was clearly in love with Jaskier…

“Then just treasure what he is willing to give you. What they both are willing to give you. The bard seemed liberal enough with his affections.”

“Mh.”, grunted Geralt. That fucking bard. Now that was a whole different kind of muddy thoughts and feelings to wade through.

He remembered how the bard's face had lit up by his rare praise. How earnest and honest, utterly convinced and truthful he sounded, when he had called Geralt a brave and honest man. The sparkling mirth in his eyes when he had declared him adorable. His defiant expression, fearless and cocky. How he was able to chase the shadows away. 

What a mess. 

“Indeed,” commented Yen. 

———————-

When Geralt came back down into the establishment, tugging his shirt into his trousers, Jaskier was still flitting about, strumming his lute. The crowd was as big as before, or so it seemed, stumping their tankards on the desks to the beat of the minstrel's salacious songs.

“How many of those does he know?” Geralt asked, a bit in awe, when he stood next to Eskel at the bar, ordering himself an ale. 

“I think he is running out. Right now he sings about a temerian clockmaker who-”

> In walked her husband and great was his shock   
> To see that old Temerian wind up his wife’s clock   
> And then says her husband “Look here, Maryann   
> Don’t let that old Temerian come in here again   
> He wound up your clock and left mine on the shelf   
> If your old clock needs winding, I’ll do it myself!”

“Never mind-”, murmured Eskel, hiding his face behind his tankard, smiling boyishly.

“CAPTAIN!”, yelled Jaskier out after his song ended, obviously happy to see that the Witcher hadn’t gotten lost. The minstrel was flushed, if from excitement, exhaustion or one too many vodkas was hard to discern. Fact was, it suited him. Geralt got the impression that no look existed that wouldn’t complement Jaskier. 

“I declare you my muse! Oh, Captain, my Captain, what is in that mug of yours?”

Geralt looked down into his tankard. “Beer?”, he said, unsure how that was relevant.

“Very good! Now hear me out you landlubbers,” he declared to his audience. 

> If you’re like most of us raised around here,   
> Then you must have started your drinking with beer,   
> We learned how to flirt with the lads at the bar,   
> And to sing out a toast for all friends near and far!

The crowd cheered, clicked their drinks together, and drank.

“Eskel, love, what are _you_ drinking?”, he asked, and answered his question himself by stealing his tankard and taking a long drag. He licked his lips distractedly, figuring out the taste. “Ah, yes, 

> When burning desire has got you quite vexed,   
> When need for a partner has left you perplexed,   
> Just grab a fine cider and ring your own bell,   
> The use of your own hand will satisfy well! 
> 
> When life gives you comedy or tragedy   
> We’ll tap another vat,   
> Raise your voice with mine and say   
> “I’ll drink to that!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was brought to you by margaritas. But the author also gets quite drunk on kudos and comments. Better for her liver, too. Safe a liver and leave a key smash or emoji down below.  
> Have a great week y'all and stay 'negative', covid-wise.


	7. The Fields of Ard Skellig

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> \- in which a princess meets family, a bard get’s into a fight & a bride is happy to be single. -

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I remembered that Skellege is populated by a bunch of Vikings, basically. You know what Vikings had? Flyting - the original battle of words. I wanted Jaskier engaged in a rap/song battle for ages now. If fics like that exist, I do not know of them. So I wrote it myself, I guess? 
> 
> \- [The Fields of Ard Skellig](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MCh9cmBc4Mg)  
> \- Most lines of the flyte are taken from or inspired by the game Assassins Creed Valhalla  
> \- Arcadian Wild - [Liar](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=l7VLCl7wR3o)

They stayed in Attre for a few more days, replenishing on rations, tools, and goods like petrol for the lamps or new linen and needles to mend the sun-damaged sails. Jaskier was happy about Yennefer allowing him to play in her establishments as long as they were on land leave in Attre. On the last day before embarking, the bard had wandered first into the shoemakers, then the tailor's shop, his earned coin in hand.

“Looking good, Jask!”, complimented him Coën with a pat on the shoulder.

“Thank you, I think so myself,” agreed the bard, looking down at his new shirt and coat.

If they were going to sail to the Skellige Isles and their rough windy weather, then Jaskier was prepared now: the blue half-length coat had come with a grey-white wolf pelt to drop over the shoulders and keep the cold away from the neck area. He just hoped that the ‘White Wolf’ coincidence wouldn’t attract too much teasing - or even cause offense.

The garment had been paid by and made for a woman and was never picked up. Jaskier had been all too happy that he had even found a coat that would fit him on such short notice. The fact that it was long enough to hide the holster on his thigh had been a nice bonus. Some white and yellow flowers were embroidered along the front and at the cuffs. It was also a few seasons out of style and the waist obviously tailored to a female physique. But if he didn’t tell then none of the fashion underprivileged pirates would notice. The tailor was happy to finally get rid of it, so the price had been lower than expected. With Belleteyn gone and Imbolc drawing near, he had been happy to exchange his thin doublet for hardier wear.

While the coat had been a nice fluke, he was far happier about the new boots. While his old shoes had been nice to look at, they had neither been practical nor comfortable for long walking, so he had ended up running around deck barefooted more often than not. Since it had been the warm season, there were no problems with that. No one had minded but Vesemir.

The older Witcher had a strict shoe policy in the galley - for security reasons, which Jaskier totally understood. A lump of hot coal had escaped their metal box contraption once when the swell had been high. Sometimes knives fell off tables and hot broth escaped the pot. He liked the number of toes he currently possessed, so he always headed Vesemirs ordinances. 

The man had really grown on him. While the grey Wolf was taciturn and authoritative most of the time, he also had a gentle soul and the patience of a saint. Jaskier had been a rookie when it came to cooking, so he had gotten a reprimand or ten, but the old Witcher always showed him how to do it right and why. 

“Coën, have you see- oh.”

Before the bard could react, he got grabbed by the lapels of his new coat and kissed thoroughly. 

“Easy, Eskel. While I really enjoy your attacks, I would like my new wardrobe to remain in one piece.” 

“You can’t just-” a peck, “wear that” - another quick kiss - “and not expect me to ravish you. Sweet Melitele, Geralt will lose his shit,” he mumbled into his neck. 

Jaskier looked at the Witcher quizzically.

“He’s the possessive type,” Eskel explained. “If you wanted to get his attention then this is the way to go.”

“Oh. Good to know.”

And of course, Eskel was right: when they were done with the maneuver of getting the Roach out of port and into open waters again, Jaskier could have sworn that the fearsome Captain Geralt of Rivia had actually gaped for a second before he got his stony expression under wraps again.

Of course, Lambert didn’t fail to drop some snarky comments either. Jaskier couldn’t care less about that when Eskel was running his hands through the pelt every time they came across each other on deck, a voracious glint in his eyes.

Traveling to Skellige was rather uneventful, except for a minor injury - Jaskier hadn’t heard the commando to tack and in a series of unfortunate events got hit by the boom, which made him slip on the freshly mopped part of the deck; Ciri had laughed her ass off - and a fistycuff between the dwarves about cheating at dice poker. 

When they arrived at the bay of Ard Skellig, they were greeted warmly. As a nation with a deeply-rooted seafaring tradition, a lot of them earning their coin as plunderers and corsairs, the Roach was a pirate ship under many. Except for a small chest with Ciris luggage, they didn’t have to unload anything this time, which was a nice change in routine. Jaskier got from board with heavy steps, nonetheless.

Looking at the fortress Kaer Trolde that reigned over the larger town from a mountain top, he was hit with a rare wave of homesickness.

Even the vegetation was the same, with their pines and fir trees. A carpet of rough greens and gray rock under an overcast sky. He heard a woman's voice singing from somewhere, presenting her lament in the tongue that was unique only to the Skellige archipelago - a remnant from when the Aen Seidhe elves shared the islands with giants and trolls.

> Fhir a' bhàta,  
>  'S tric mi sealltainn on chnoc as àirde  
>  Gach àit' an téid thu.  
>  Dh'fheuch am faic mi fear a' bhàta.  
>  Gach àit' an téid thu.

  
“What’s that gal singing about? Sounds like she’s yearning,” remarked the dwarf Caleb, looking up at the rocky ledge where the singer voiced her plight to the sea. As the sun was going down, she was lit in colors of rose and gold.

“That she often looks from the highest hill to watch out for her boatman.” Jaskier couldn’t help but be captured by the moment, a lump in his throat.

She loved him, longed for him to come back. It was not in the lyrics, but wasn’t it impressive that music could express this much? You didn’t have to understand a word to realize that she was wistful. He plucked a few strings on his lute, hoping that his friendly request was enough for the winds to send the message far and wide over the oceans. So that every sailor out there got reminded of their homes and the loved ones that awaited them.

“I heard there was a whitehaired goblin about!”, boomed a deep voice ahead. 

“Uncle Crach!” Ciri screamed in delight and was running as fast as lightning to a hulking figure. Geralt followed her with a more moderate pace, a nearly invisible smile on his face.

It suited him rather well. The seemingly impenetrable walls always came down easily when Ciri was involved. If the bard ever overheard even one idiot claiming that Witchers had no feelings, he would hit them with a chair. 

Jaskier saw the man greeting them and went rigid. 

_Well fuck_ , he thought. 

He distinctly remembered the bear of a man. A hulking figure with a bellowing laugh, conversing with his father on his seventh birthday. He had seen the man on other occasions, too.

He tried to hide behind Lambert's wide shoulders, but the sudden movement must have drawn the Jarls attention. 

“A skald!”, he boomed, as he noticed the instrument. “What a great surprise! You must play at the feast! You do good to travel with a man of stories, Geralt of Rivia!”

The Jarl seemed to be incapable of not forming his sentences like they ended in exclamation points, Jaskier thought. 

“Jaskier - Jarl Crach an Craite.” Geralt introduced them taciturn.

“You look familiar, poetaster! Have we met before?”

“Just one of those faces, I guess,” Jaskier answered meekly and prayed to all the gods that Crach an Craite wouldn’t make the connection.

He hoped his tan and sunbleached hair, as well as the three-day-old beard, were enough of a disguise for now. That big hat from the Timerians would have come in handy right now. Jaskier wondered what had happened to that beauty after Geralt had confiscated it.

While Ciri insisted to use some sort of flying chamber to get up to the citadel, the rest of the crew made their long way up to the imposing monument, first up the mountain, then over the long stone bridge, and finally through the gates. The wind up here whistled relentlessly, making Jaskier grateful once again for the woman who had never picked up her coat.

They entered a hall that was obviously made for giants in mind: the high ceiling needed to be supported by many stone pillars. The banquet hall seemed to be carved out of the very mountain it resided in. The stone walls were decorated with tapestries, axes, and clan shields, the floor carpeted with strategically placed pelts. The dim lighting from candles, torches, and two hearths left and right of the throne managed to make the gigantic hall look somewhat homely.

Where the lighting alone could not manage, the company sure made up for it: every long table was occupied by warriors and shield maidens, drinking mead and eating roast with their hands, talking loudly and laughing even louder. Jaskier was pretty sure, that most of them could crush his bones with a hug and strangle him with their thighs. Jaskier felt right at home with the rowdiness of the place. 

Since there wasn’t a separate table reserved for them, they mingled. The dwarves got quickly engaged in a drinking game, the Bears goaded into arm wrestling. Jaskier was pulled to what seemed to be the family table, where he got introduced to Crachs children Hjalmar and Cerys.

The bard had to blink twice when he saw another fair-haired girl with hazel eyes sitting next to Ciri. 

“I haven’t even drunk anything yet,” he whispered to himself, trying to dispel the strange doppelganger from his vision. When he looked closer through the dim light, he noticed the differences.

“That’s Angoulême,” explained Eskel to him. “She will trade places with Ciri, join the Roach until Lammas. Then we’ll pick Ciri up again.”

“Clever,” murmured Jaskier.

Geralt, sitting on the other side of Eskel, caught the silent praise with his keen Witcher ears. His eyes were drawn close to suspicious little slits. “No ‘why’? Questions about the girl who looks like Ciri?”

Jaskier lifted an unimpressed eyebrow. When he answered his voice was as low as he could make it without whispering, so curious ears couldn’t pick it up, a tankard of mead in front of his mouth.

“How stupid do you think I am? I’ve been Cirillas teacher for a while now. When she mentioned ‘Grandpa Eist’ the dots were kind of easy to connect. Most of you are not exactly subtle. There are also some startlingly good manners ingrained in her that she certainly hadn’t gotten from the crew. I have no idea why the heiress of the Cintran crown decided to change careers and became a pirate princess, but I am sure you will tell me when you’re ready.”

Geralt felt uncomfortable. Maybe it was because Jaskier was privy to Ciris identity or because he was unsure about how to reciprocate Jaskiers trust and loyalty. The bard had several occasions by now to tattle on well-paying sources. Instead, he had kept this big secret to himself and had patiently waited for answers he was probably dying to know.

Jaskiers mind was already somewhere else, Geralt could see, when a horrible noise filled the room. The bard tried and failed not to make faces when a skalde produced the most annoying tunes out of a bagpipe. He tried to occupy himself with eating and conversing with the an Craite progeny. The touch on his leg from Eskels hand now and then also helped to get his minds on other things. 

“So, Ciri, changed your mind this summer and wanna marry my brother after all? Because father is hinting at wanting grandchildren”, Cerys asked jokingly.

Both Hjalmar and Ciri blushed at that, remembering their undying love confessions and ‘engagement’.

“I was seven!”, justified Ciri. “And I will not marry Hjalmar. We are related, that’s gross.” 

Jaskier tried to figure out the family tree in his head for a bit, which was quite a feat. Since Eist Tuirseach was Crach an Craites uncle, making Hjalmar Eists grandnephew, Ciri as his not blood related but still legitimate granddaughter was Hjalmars … cousin second grade?

Jaskiers mind was struggling to get the complete picture together. Royal family trees were a complicated mess better not looked at too closely. 

“Also: it’s Hjalmar! Urgh.” Ciri and Cerys giggled at that, probably sharing some kind of inside joke.

“But if you won’t do it, nobody will. Hjalmars idiot levels have reached some new heights lately. He will never get a wife. And I technically can’t even snog the fisher's daughter.”

“Forever the bride, but never a wife,” teased Hjalmar, lifting his cup and emptying it in one go. 

“What does he mean by that?” asked Jaskier, intrigued, lifting his own cup to see for himself if the mead was as palatable as Hjalmar made it look. 

“He’s teasing about my betrothal. Some seven or so years ago I was on a ship to the Unseen Isle. Upon my arrival, my husband-to-be Julian had fled the scene.”

Jaskier had a coughing fit.

Eskel patted his back. “You alright there?”

No. He was not.

He nodded anyway. 

“I’m happy about the way everything turned out, though. Maybe we would have hated each other. But since the betrothal was never officially broken off, I am not really allowed to court anybody else. Not that I am interested, it’s kinda nice that the suiters stay off my back with dad being Jarl and all that. Still, this Prince Julian at least could have had the decency to call the thing off before he fled to Freya knows where. What an asshole.”

Jaskier wished for a hole to open up.

While the conversations around him continued to different matters, Jaskier tried to hide in his tankard.

Cerys was right, of course.

In hindsight, his escape had been rather childish. If Cerys had found the love of her life in the last years, then Jaskiers stupid actions could have deprived her of her happiness. Jaskier hated himself for always being a selfish little shit.

Suddenly he was very aware of Eskels hand on his thigh again. Instead of feeling cherished and seen like before, he felt ashamed of himself. He was painfully reminded of the fact, that his selfishness had led him right to this point as well - desiring both Eskel and Geralt and trying to have it all. Now that he looked back on the last weeks, he felt shabby.

Had he manipulated the two?

Jaskier knew, that he was a charmer. A notorious flirt and sweet talker. Had he used Eskels yearning for something he couldn’t have to his advantage? Was he even now using their insecurities to tamper with their feelings?

Gosh, and now he was thinking about himself and his own situation _again_. This was about Cerys right now!

He looked at the redhead, studying her. She laughed about something Ciri had said, then kicked her elbow into Hjalmars side. They squabbled for a bit as siblings do.

She seemed happy. Her eyes were sparkling with mirth and intelligence. Her quips were fast and witty and she seemed headstrong and kind. She was beautiful, Jaskier thought. Queen potential.

He understood now, why his father picked her. That he had seen, what Jaskier saw right now.

While Jaskier had his mental breakdown, he hadn’t noticed Lambert slipping onto the bench on his other side. He only took notice of him when the bastard poked him somewhat fierce.

“You alright there, squirt? You look a bit out of it.”

“Yeah, I… may be the mead,” answered Jaskier weakly.

“We boring you or something?” Cerys asked half-jokingly. 

“You may enjoy the company of our skald Draig Bon-Dhu, he’s the blond fellow with the bagpipes,” Hjalmar unnecessarily explained.

“Yeah. I figured. How do you deal with this noise?” Jaskier had to wince when he got aware of the disharmonic hullabaloo again.

“I ask that myself every day,” murmured Geralt behand his tankard. Jaskier pouted at that.

“Draig is the best skald on the islands!” insisted Hjalmar loudly. 

“He musn’t have a lot of competition, then.”

The skald must have heard his comment, for the bagpipes gave an atonal sigh and suddenly there was blissful silence.

“ExCUSE ME? Who has the gall to insult my art?”

Jaskier snorted at that. When he turned around he saw the blond musician was posing with affront, hands high on his hips. 

“You call that art? Most skalds choose to be loud _or_ stupid. Somehow you manage both.”

Draig sputtered. 

“The dunce is clearly you if you can’t appreciate the fine tones of our traditional music.”

“Yes, well, where I am coming from, we actually incorporate music theory in the composing process.”

“And where would that be?”

“Well, Oxenfurt of course,” lied Jaskier smoothly. “The metropolis of poetry and songs.”

“An Oxenfurt bard, huh? All cursed with slow brains and fat tongues. Bet you couldn’t beat me in a fight even with an almanac in hand.”

“EXCUSE ME? Oh, I’m gonna end you! Eskel, love, hold my lute.”

“Should we… do something?”, asked Eskel in a whisper, carefully cradling the loved instrument like a piece of glass, while he watched Jaskier and the skald meet in the middle of the hall. They looked daggers at each other, and Eskel wasn't sure if the daggers would soon be very material. “This is your fault, Lambert. You gave our lark weapons. Now look what you’ve done!”

Geralt subtly put a hand under the table and on his blade, ready to defend the idiot, if need be.

“I have sparred against champions and bested each one!”, exclaimed Draig loudly.   
“Oh-hoho. To beat such a braggert is gonna be fun,” answered Jaskier unimpressed.   
“I am the greatest of flyters! A master of verse.”  
“Your pride is apalling, and your rhyming is worse,” answered Jaskier, inspecting his fingernails as if bored.

“I’m confused. What are they doing?”, asked Lambert, who had hoped for a nice brawl.

“Flyting. Insulting each other in verse. Old tradition 'round here,” explained Hjalmar.

Cerys shushed them with a reproaching look.

“Have you ever seen muscles as massive as mine?” 

Jaskier had to conceed that he looked pretty buff for a bard. How was it that every Skelligan looked like a hunk? Was it the mead? The mountain air? The regular climbing to get from one place to another?

“What you make up in muscles, you’re lacking in spine,” countered Jaskier somewhat uninspired. 

“More than strength I can boast that my features are fair.”  
“They sure seem befitting to give children a scare.”

Draig sputtered, insulted, while the Skelligans roared. The blonde subconsciously drew his hand through his hair and ruffled up the crown a bit to add volume.

An insecure peacock. Jaskier could work with that. Time to fire back.

He put on his most seductive smile and swagger and leaned into Duigs personal space. 

“You see, I draw smiles from the women and winks from the men,  
I’m a bard and a poet who’s skilled with his pen.  
What know you of the power of flyts to seduce,  
Are you even aware that they have such a use?  
See, your weapon lies not in your arms but your head.” While saying that line his eyes first roamed over Duigs arms he’d bragged about a few verses ago, an appreciating smile on his lips, then up his clavicle, to land on his lips. Duig was visibly frown off by this.

“Well you’re a fool and a braggart and - and-” Duig obviously didn’t know how to deal with Jaskiers hands-on approach, trying to come up with words while Jaskier looked at him seductively from below his lashes.   
“-want me in your bed?” supplied Jaskier. His smirk was lewd.

“I’m as good with my lips as I am with my tongue.  
But my skills be for naught,” Jaskiers put on an overly apologetic and sad mimic on his face, then demonstratively looked at Draigs crotch, “for I heard you’re not hung.”

There was a lot of whistling and hooting in the hall. A round of applause claimed Jaskier the winner. 

When the bard turned around to get back to his seat, maybe even claim a winner's kiss from Eskel, Duig stopped him with a screamed “You cheated!”

Jaskier lifted his hands as if to say ‘well…duh’. “Pirate.”

When he returned to his seating and relieved Eskel of the important job of holding his lute, he got his hair ruffled and pulled into a half embrace by Lambert.

“I don’t get your kind of fighting, but I’m relieved to see that you are proficient in one type of combat, at least.”

“Glad you approve,” remarked Jaskier dryly, but let a small smile slid on his face anyway. “Now let me go, you brute, I have to serve tradition here.”

He grabbed his own tankart and one that was standing around without an owner. He filled them both up in the big keg, then moved some things around on the table. He ungracefully scambled on the bank, then stood at the table.

He lifted his own tankard into the air, yelled “One for the winner!” and under a lot of cheering from the Skelligens, emptied the jug in one go. Then he held up the second mead, holding it out for Duig. “And one for the opponent. For he fought with passion and lost with grace.” The Skelligans whooped and clapped for their skald, who stepped forward and received the drink with dignity.

“Someone help me down? I think I may be a bit tipsy,” conceded Jaskier.

Eskel looked up at him, so much pride and love in his gaze that it hurt. He wrapped his big hands around the bard's hips and lifted him back on the ground like he weighed nothing. They stood a moment like that, Eskel holding him close with Jaskiers arms wrapped around the Witchers neck. Jaskier noticed Geralt watching them, a strange expression on his face.

Jaskier was painfully aware of his selfishness again.

He slowly removed himself from Eskels embrace.

“You alright?”

“Yeah… just the drinks. Too much too fast. I will get some fresh air for a while.” He pecked Eskel on the cheek. “Keep the others entertained while I catch my breath, will you?”

“I’ll try my best, but replacing you is impossible.” Eskels small smile was so soft, that it burned.

Jaskier fled the hall and after a bit of wandering, found a lovely place at the terraces.

It was stunning, the view spanning over nearly the entirety of the archipelago: Spikeroog far to the west, An Skellig to the north, and Hindarsfjall a bit hidden behind Undvik to the east. He imagined Crach awakening in the morning to this panorama, overviewing his land and the force of nature that was the wide open sea. 

That made him think of the view he himself had woken up to for so many years. Purely out of instinct he swiped his lute in front of him. Keeping his hands occupied had always helped to clear his mind. He plucked a quick, but easy melody, trying to muddle through the dark cloud that made up his thoughts and feelings.

Priorities. What to do about Cerys? 

There was a pretty easy answer to that: relieve her of the bonds forced on her. He wondered why his father hadn’t done that yet. King Pankratz was a stubborn bastard, but he had a kind heart. He wouldn’t have pressured Cerys into upholding the engagement for more than a year or two.

He would have to out himself as Julian to her if he broke the engagement off. But keeping up with his ruse while Cerys was robbed of love was just a really shitty and - again - selfish thing to do. 

‘Egoistical decisions, even well-intentioned ones, are still egoistic, for they serve you and not the people,' he heard Madame Kristynas voice echoing in his ears. ‘Clouds send rain to quench the thirst of all. They give selflessly, demanding nothing in return.’

Ah fuck. He’d screwed up. Royally.

> I am the host of this hostility  
>  I'm the master magician that makes you believe  
>  I'm real, I'm not fake, but in reality  
>  I'm a lying man  
>  My life's become this grand game of deception  
>  My mind's ignored all my heart's good intentions  
>  We all feel this tension  
>  We all have our own illusions

But let him be selfish for a few more years? Just a bit longer? Being on the Roach seemed just right at the moment. And getting back on the Isle now, after all these years, seemed pointless. His father would have a fit either way, no matter if he returned to his duties this year or the next.

Which brought him to his next train of thought: How to proceed with the two Witchers currently occupying his heart. Keeping his identity to himself was kind of selfish too. Then again…

Once they found each other, Eskel would probably get sick of his idiosyncrasies quick enough. It happened often enough that he was kind of used to it by now, too. And Geralt was already fed up with his personality most of the time.

He wanted to enjoy the time they were willing to give him, in whatever form. Telling them about his heritage would probably cut that precious time short.

He pondered over the fickleness of feelings versus telling the truth while the night sky turned even darker. The clouds covered the moon, dark and thick in the sky. Pregnant with lifegiving water, a light drizzle started up. 

> I need you to see through my act  
>  To tell me I'm wrong, to take off the mask  
>  Or else I'll be left in the lie  
>  I'll deceive my way straight to demise

To Hel with it. He will keep his identity secret, he decided. He had played his game as humble bard too long, had worked too hard for this identity, to just let it dissolve for one major cockup and a short love story.

He watched, entranced, as the Roach and the smaller boats were slowly swallowed up by soft fog. 

And if the crew found out themselves… so be it. He had been slipping lately, he knew. But being exposed to the winds and the sky all day long for months had left him feeling adventurous. He never trusted himself with his gifts when he was in towns. 

> 'Cause I'm not in a right state of mind  
>  I just wish I had strength to admit it  
>  My stubbornness will put up a fight  
>  But I don't deserve to win it  
>  I'm left in the dark pondering my mistakes  
>  But in the light I swear I will  
>  Deny it all

The fog seemed to try to hide Julian away from the world. Jaskier appreciated it.

* * *

In the long absence of their bard Eskel, Geralt and Lambert had gotten way too drunk.

Hjalmar had dragged them into a drinking game, where their mead horns were filled time and time again. Especially Lambert with his big mouth was deep in his cups by now after daring the armorer to outdrink him. While the guy already slept his drunkenness off in a corner, snoring loudly, Lambert still had the ability to stand and - well not walk, exactly. With every step he took, he swayed from side to side, trying to figure out, which of the three different doors was the real one.

Both Eskel and Geralt took pity on him, called it a night, and wedged their brother in the middle, one of his arms over their shoulders each. Together the trio wobbled down the hall.

The stairs were more complicated. Lambert decided to crawl, while Geralt occasionally pushed his behind so he could gain momentum for the next few steps.

When they finally got to the guest quarters of the Kaer, they opened doors at random to see if they were occupied. Milva was not amused.

After the third try, they decided to just drop Lambert onto the wide double bed, where Ivo was already sleeping like a bear in winter, snoring loudly. They giggled at the bad joke for all but a minute, while Eskel tried to hush them with a loud hissing. His finger kept missing the middle of his mouth. As soon as Lambert had kicked off his boots and his head hit the pillow, he was out to the world. His hands sneaked out to Ivo, cuddling him like a life-sized teddy.

They more or less sneaked out, still giggling like little schoolboys, closing the room door behind them.

Eskel grabbed Geralt by the hand purely on instinct, as he got used to doing it with Jaskier, and lead him through the corridor to the last door on the left, the one Eskel usually occupied for himself while they stayed at Kaer Trolde. Instead of shaking out of his light grab, Geralt let himself be pulled along willingly and followed the black-haired Witcher into the room.

His ale hazed mind cleared up considerably however, when Eskel pushed him into a wall, crowding him in. 

Eskel pressed his body into Geralt, taking his face into both of his hands. His fingers scrambled along his cheeks, his neck. He waited, apprehensive of the other's reaction to this bold attack.

Geralts lips fell open, surprised, but pliant and willing, his golden cat-like slit eyes widened into black orbs. He closed the distance and nibbled on Eskels lips, then with a growl, turned it into a hungry kiss.

Eskel slid his hands into Geralts hair, struggling to kiss back with the same force and enthusiasm. 

They got lost in it. Lost in the thing they once had and never should have let go. Devotion and love they hadn’t bestowed upon each other for how many years compressed into one desperate kiss. Kisses. Oh so many kisses to make up for. 

That’s how Jaskier found them what felt like a far too short eternity later, looking through the still wide-open door. Geralt shied back from Eskel quickly when he noticed the man.

“Proceed,” remarked Jaskier, an indecipherable smile on his face. His eyes were sad and soft, but somehow still alight with joy. He seemed genuinely happy for them. With a nonchalant wave, he left them to their own devices.

“Ah, Milva! Just the lady I was looking for! Tell me, sweety, what has a bard to do around here to get his hands on a razor and some warm water?” they heard him babble before the door was firmly pulled shut.

Before Geralt could comment, that they should stop, maybe, there was a hand in his hair, first gripping, then pulling. Geralt moaned, all thoughts of doubt flying out of his mind.

Eskel had wanted Geralt’s hands on his skin for too long to let regret or an unnecessary sense of guild touch the moment. They had denied each other too long and they were going to enjoy taking what they could tonight, or Melitele help him.

Geralts touches were addictive, explosive, combusting, sparkling over his skin and vibrating to his core.

He got lost to the sensation of it.

He managed to get Geralt’s trousers pushed down over the swell of his fine ass, grabbing two handfuls and kneading the flesh. Geralts chest rumbled loudly, a feral growl of approval.

Grabbing Eskel by the waist he walked them to the bed in a slow shuffle, far too preoccupied with the pleasure thrumming in his blood and the ecstasy of knowing that this is Eskel, fucking amazing Eskel, gorgeous Eskel, kind Eskel, courageous Eskel, _his_ Eskel, Eskel, _Eskel_ , -

  
They are falling after that. Wearing each other like well-known armor, hands searching out spots they know they enjoyed to be gripped firmly or caressed softly, pressed hard or scratched lightly. Things they had discovered when they were still sixteen and new to it all. Drowning in their every touch, reducing each other to shivering messes.

They don’t sleep at all that night. 

They couldn’t lay in bed, however, when they more or less noticed the sun come up, hidden under a heavy blanket of clouds that were still drizzling away. Even though they tried to bathe in each other's presence for as long as they could, they got antsy, the early morning work too deeply ingrained in both of them.

They refreshed themselves and dressed, as every morning, the only difference being shy neck kisses and unsure touches. 

They returned down to the hall for dagmal, serving themselves from the leftovers. They shared long glances and small smiles. Looked at lips and previously kissed or bitten skin. 

The other crew members arrived in dribs and drabs as the morning progressed. Lambert looked a bit worse for wear and was pricklier than usual. Everyone was relieved when Junod shoved a piece of bread into his mouth, shutting up his grumbling. 

Geralt used the small gathering to give out orders and picked a handful of members to relieve Vesemir, Regis, and the elves of their night watch. Vesemirs old bones would probably appreciate a good rest in a nice warm bed - not that the old Witcher would ever admit to that. 

He just looked over Yennefers map with Eskel, collating it with more detailed ones they had gotten not ten minutes ago from a skelligan plunderer named Björn. 

“Good morning!”, Jaskier greeted them with his usual cheer. He dropped a kiss on Eskels head as if nothing worldchanging had happened last night.

Geralt expected the whole situation to be awkward. That there would be resentment or jealousy. But oddly enough, there wasn’t. Jaskier and Geralt sharing Eskel seemed to be the most natural thing in the world.

He just sat there, picking sheep cheese out of a mixed platter and inspecting the spicy smell coming out of a ceramic jug, babbling on about how everything and nothing. He was clean shaven and smelled of rosemary, so he had obviosly gotten what he was after last night.

There was a reason why this thing between him and Eskel was so much easier than any other relationship they ever had. They knew each other. Their flaws and fears and insecurities. Witchers were called upon, used and shooed away again. Only a handful of lovers had treated them differently. Most enjoyed the novelness of a Witcher in their bed and after a while went on with their lives.

And yet somehow Jaskier did neither of those things. Did not even see Witchers - the world that way. He was free with his giving, not really expecting anything in return, Geralt realized.

It got Geralt curious. The bard just couldn’t be this nice and understanding. It irked him, somehow. 

Wondering if it was all an act, he dropped his hand on Eskels thigh. He usually wasn’t one for public displays of affection, so he got a questioning eyebrow raise out of Eskel. _Eskel really knows me too well_ , shot through his head, but he was too busy watching for Jaskiers reaction out of the corner of his eyes to mourn their lost time right now.

To Geralts frustration the bard didn’t notice. Or he had noticed but hadn’t reacted in any way.

“So what are we up to? When do you see this Hermione?”

“Ermion,” corrected Geralt. “Or Mousesack, if you prefer.”

“No, I don’t think I do. What kind of name is that?” mocked Jaskier good-natured. 

“He will be here around noon. He had business at that druid's grove a bit south and it will take him a while to get here, so we still have a few hours to kill,” elaborated Eskel. 

“Oh, good. Have you seen Cerys, by the way?”, the bard asked out of the blue. 

“She is with Ciri and Angoulême, last I heard. Doing that crazy run up the mountain. They’ll probably be attached to the hip until we depart.”

Jaskier seemed deep in thought after that answer, then emptied his cup and stood, donning that fucking wolfcoat. Something deep in Geralt wanted to both rip that off him and wrap him in it.

“Oi, where do you think you are going, birdy?”, asked Lambert from another table, wolfing down as many leftovers as he could.

“Uhm… sightseeing?” he said, making big innocent eyes at the boatswain.

“Don’t think so, cabin boy. Out there and to the left you will find the smithy. Speak to Yanne. Get the new munition on the Roach.” he ordered, showing him the mentioned exit with a gesture.

“You want _me_ to carry the canon balls who weigh a ton down the fucking mountain? What did I do to you, Lambert? Haven’t I been the nicest friend to you of late? Haven't I always followed your orders well? Sneaked sweets out of the galley? Polished your boots to the finest shine?”

Lambert looked unimpressed, biting into a piece of ham.

Jaskier pouted, then whimpered and complied.

The task was slow going since he could only carry one crate at a time and had to put them down frequently to rest his arms. It was still drizzling, the light fog making his fringe fall into his eyes. Fucking Lambert. No more pilfering sweets out of the galley for that prick. He didn’t deserve nice things.

He had been on his third route up the Kaer again when he was nearly run over by the group of young women. Ciri, Cerys and Angoulême all wore red faces, either from the cold or exercise, and were talking animatedly.

“My dear Lady Cerys?”  
The girls giggled at that, clearly delighted that anyone would claim Cerys to be a lady.

“Yes, skald?”

“May I have a word with you before we depart?”, asked Jaskier respectfully.   
“Sure,” Cerys answered, puzzled. “I’ll be at the docks to see you off,” she promised before she was dragged off by the others.

“See you later, uncle Jask!” yelled Angoulême, while she pulled Cerys towards the citadel. 

Jaskier picked up his crate again, both parts relieved and apprehensive to get this talk over with.

* * *

“Ah, yes. The seal coat. I think I know exactly where that is,” said Ermion. He removed his high antler hat to scratch at his thinning gray hair. He had been told of their search through raven before they had left Attre.

The druid, Geralt and Eskel were sitting at his study down in the Kaer. Before them lay the maps, spread out. He put a finger on a point southeast of Holmstein’s Port.

“You will find it in the Cave of Dreams.”

Geralt raised an eyebrow. “It can’t be that easy.”

Ermion combed a hand through his long beard. “That’s because it’s not. A lot of the skelligan plunderers have tried by now. There are some prerequisites that have to be met first before the attempt can even be made.”

He stood from his high-backed chair and started rummaging about in his vast apothecary, pulling some herbs out of containers.

“First, you have to be mindful of the tides. The cave entry will only be accessible by low tide. You have to get deeper into the cave until you see a totem.”

He laid the herbs out in front of them: hemlock, henbane, poppy, and nightshade.

“There is a brew that will make you see things that are supposed to stay hidden. While your body will remain in this world, your ghost will be pulled into the world of the dead.”

Eskel snorted at that. “Lovely. Can’t be worse than a trip on fisstech. Then what?”

“Elders say that in the cave of dreams you face your greatest fears, the things that make you wake up screaming at night. Things that have been, will be or just might be. As you travel deeper into the cave there will be several fears to fight. I have heard that even fighting one of them on your own can be your end, so travel in a small group of three or four, but not more. Every single member of your group will have to face a fear that is shared with all; if you take ten men, you will have to fight ten nightmares, so keep your group small. Choose men who know their fears and are able to approach them heads on. There have been many who claimed to be fearless but never returned. Others came back mad and were never the same as before.”

Geralts and Eskels faces were stony.

“You will find the seal coat in the deepest part of the cave. Look out for a chest made of siren and mermaid bones.”

“Fantastic,” remarked Geralt in a dry tone. “We’re definitely not getting paid enough for this shit.”

Eskel sighed deeply in agreement. 

Unwilling to waste even more time, Geralt gave the order to ship out. He wanted to get this whole adventure over with sooner rather than later. They were ready by late afternoon, able to use the sparse gray daylight to get the Roach loaded and ready to go. 

The crew had slowly boarded one after another. Only Geralt and Jaskier were still on the pier. Ciri hugged Geralt one more time for good measure, while Jaskier pulled Cerys to the side nervously. 

“You wanted to speak with me?” she prompted when Jaskier stayed silent for a long moment. 

Jaskier nodded, then turned around to see if they were overheard. The fog and light rain muffled the sounds from Roach's deck so he felt assured that even keen Witcher ears wouldn’t be able to pick their conversation up.

He took a deep breath. 

“Cerys. You… You are witty and fierce, courageous and beautiful. You are by far the smartest of the An Craite bunch, but don’t tell the Jarl I said that. My father was right. I would have fallen for you easily.”

He took her hands and pressed them to his forehead. 

“I hereby free you of your commitment. I am a groom no more and so are you no bride.”

He pressed her hands to his heart.

“Although my heart is chained, your heart shall wear no chain. Although we might belong, I belong to thunder, wind and rain.”

He distanced himself, still holding her hands in his by the tips of their fingers.

“For your soul is too precious to chain you to my side. If our lives will cross again may only know the tide.”

He softly pulled away from her, leaving her hands hanging in the air.

An unnatural breeze picked up, ruffling their hair and shaking out some droplets of water in the process. It silently attested their terminated betrothal as a witness. Jaskier sighed in relief when he felt an invisible bond lifted.

Cerys’ mouth formed a silent O of surprise and understanding. 

“Julian?”, she whispered. 

Jaskier gave her a smile, small and warm and shy and guilty and bittersweet. Then he put a finger in front of his lips, the universal sign for secrecy.

“Take care, Cerys.”

Jaskier boarded the Roach and they took off. When they drifted off from the pier, Cerys finally shook out of her stupor.

“You fucking bastard!”, she yelled from ashore, a happy smile on her face. “You should have done that years ago, you asshole!”

Her carefree laughter drifted across the whole bay and echoed in the fog. 

“What was that about?”, asked Eskel, intrigued. 

“Ah, just a farewell between friends.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Soooo… we are now officially halfway through the story. Time for a big reveal! Next chapter the bois are going to figure out who or what Jaskier is. I’m curious if my more or less well-hidden hints have led you in the right direction, dear reader. Please leave your guesses in the comments!


End file.
